Dol Guldur
by Elf Eye
Summary: Another in "The Nameless One" series, in which Legolas, as Anomen, is fostered in Rivendell. Set after "Saruman Redivivus."
1. The Summons

**_W_**hat I am writing is

**_O_**nly to satisfy the

**_L_**ongings of a certain creature

**_F_**or Warg flesh.

A couple of reviewers asked me to write another Anomen/Legolas ficlet, so, back by popular demand, so to speak…

            A messenger rode into camp just as the scouts were finishing the evening meal.

"Taurmeldir," said the messenger, "Lord Elrond wishes you to return to the Hall.  Plans are afoot for a great riding, and you and some of your scouts are to be numbered amongst it.  Tactics are being considered now, and your advice is sought."

            "Does he wish my scouts to return as well?"

            "No.  Lord Elrond wishes your lieutenant to lead them ten leagues into Dunland.  They are to make sure that our warriors' path will be clear at least that far."

            Elladan, Elrohir, Thoron, and Anomen talked excitedly as they cleaned the supper dishes.

            "At last!" gloated Elrohir.  "At last we are going to strike against our enemies!"

"You say, 'we'," Thoron observed.  "Like as not we will be remaining behind in Rivendell or, at best, continuing our duties as scouts."

"Why should we not be included in the riding?" demanded Elrohir indignantly.

"As Elves, we are still numbered among the young."

"I am over a thousand years old," complained Elrohir.  "How much longer will I be treated like an elfling!?  And Anomen here has skirmished with Orc, Warg, and Man!  He at least can no longer be considered a novice."

"Anomen has also," Thoron pointed out, "managed to get himself covered with spider bites by disobeying orders.  That is not likely to recommend him to Glorfindel as he decides on the make-up of the force."

Anomen nodded.  "I have to agree with Thoron.  Scouts will still be needed in Imladris, and it would be more sensible for Glorfindel to assign us to that task rather than to spare older, more experienced warriors."

Elrohir struck his hand upon the ground.  "But Elladan and I have more cause than most to ride against those foul creatures that lurk about Dol Goldur.  All these years we have been training, training, training—and for what if we are never to be allowed to avenge our Naneth!?"

The four Elves fell silent.  Elrohir's face was a study in frustration and rage.  Elladan, on the other hand, had a faraway look on his face, as if he were remembering the mother who had been so cruelly tormented by Orcs.

Glumly, the four young Elves finished their chores and returned to camp. 

            At the very time that this discussion was taking place, Elrond, Erestor, Glorfindel, and Mithrandir were reaching a very different conclusion.

            "Elrond," said Glorfindel, "remember when you first sent Anomen, Elladan, and Elrohir on patrol?"

            Elrond raised an eyebrow.  "Would I be likely to forget?  Elladan and Elrohir were captured by the Southrons on that sortie.  And Anomen," Elrond added thoughtfully, "killed his first Man."

            "You remember what motivated you?  You wanted the younger Elves to get a taste of the warrior's life before we were in a state of outright hostility."

            "Yes," sighed Elrond.  "I thought—hoped—that we still had the luxury of time so that they could be slowly introduced to their duties."

            "We do not have that luxury," said Glorfindel bluntly.  "I would like the young ones to be included in this riding: your sons, your foster-son, and their friend Thoron."

            "Glorfindel is right," said Mithrandir.  "There is more at stake here than the battle for Mirkwood"—Anomen's name for that forest had come into general use—"for I deem that there is a malevolent power at work there that will soon envelop all of Middle Earth in its machinations.  We may drive it from its fortress at Dol Guldur, but in doing so we will not defeat it.  Nay, likely enough our efforts will do no more than force it, willy nilly, into the open, and the resulting struggle will be a terrible one.  We should take every opportunity to send the young ones into the initial battles so that they are prepared for the later ones—for each battle shall be more terrible than the previous one."

            Elrond nodded somberly.  "You are right, my old friend.  When Taurmeldir's scouts return, all of them, even the youngest, will take their place in the vanguard."

            The old friends sat silently for several moments, each pondering the hard choice that they had made.  Erestor at last bestirred himself and tried to lighten the gloomy atmosphere.

"Well," he said, "we must keep in mind that, had we not decided to officially include them in the riding, no doubt they would have contrived to _un_officially attach themselves to it.  At least we will know where they are and be able to supervise them."

"You are of course correct, Erestor," agreed Elrond, allowing himself to smile.  "Moreover, the trellis has been askew ever since the last time Anomen made his escape down it, and no doubt it will soon collapse outright if we do not concede them their places amongst the warriors."

All joined in the laughter.  Then Erestor arose.

"With your permission, Elrond, I need to return to overseeing the ingathering of the supplies."

"And I," said Glorfindel, likewise arising, "have to supervise the final preparation of some items of weaponry."

 Elrond nodded at the two.  When they had left, Mithrandir sighed and rolled his goblet in his hands.

"You are troubled, Mithrandir."

"Yes, Elrond."

"If you are concerned about Anomen, I think you need not be.  In the company of Dwarves, he has skirmished with Orcs.  When it was needful for Elladan's rescue, he steeled himself in order to slay a Man.  As a member of Glorfindel and Erestor's company, he held his own when they were forced to battle a force of Dunlendings much larger than their own.  Tracked by a warg in Fangorn Forest, he slew it.  He is as ready—mayhap more ready—than any of the other young ones."

"Indeed, Elrond, it is not Anomen who concerns me at this time."

An expression of surprise flitted across Elrond's face.

"Who then?"

"Your own sons, Elrond, especially Elrohir, who has ever been a little more rash than Elladan."

"What do you fear?"

"Elrond, they have waited long to strike back at the vile beasts that tortured their mother.  In the matter of Orcs, all Elves have a general score to settle; Elladan and Elrohir, however, have a most particular wrong that they wish to avenge.  But the desire for vengeance can cloud the mind, as should not happen in battle.  Your sons must come to understand that vengeance is least likely to be achieved when it is consciously sought in the heat of conflict.  No, in such a case, death for the avenger is the likelier outcome."

Elrond nodded somberly.  "You are right, my friend—as always.  My children and I have not often spoken of their mother, her sufferings, and her departure for the Grey Haven.  In this I have been selfish.  Now, however, I will broach the matter as soon as ever I may, and I swear to you that we shall not depart Rivendell until we have reached an understanding." 

Satisfied, the wizard arose and took his leave of Elrond.  After his departure, long did that elf-lord remain alone in the chamber, staring into a fire in which visions appeared that brought him both great joy and great sorrow.

TBC


	2. A Toast To Celebrian

            The young Elves had hardly returned to Rivendell from their extended patrol into Dunland when they found themselves staring with dismay at the retreating back of the messenger who had stiffly informed them that they were summoned—at once and without delay—to Elrond's chamber.

"'At once and without delay?'  _That doesn't sound good," exclaimed Elladan.  He looked accusingly at Elrohir.  "What have you done?"_

"I haven't done anything!" protested Elrohir.  "I haven't been back in Rivendell long enough _to have done anything."_

"Elrohir is right," said Thoron, coming to his defense.  "And your father has summoned all of us, not just Elrohir."

"Of course," grinned Anomen, "Elrohir _could have done something—but before we departed on patrol."_

"Yes," crowed Elladan, "and Ada wants to see all of us because he can't prove which of us it was so he wishes to question us all!"  He glanced triumphantly at his brother, who was trying to look offended.  In fact, Elrohir was wracking his brains as he attempted to recall all he had done before departing Rivendell.  Much as he would have hated to admit it, Anomen and Elladan's reasoning was all too plausible.

 Thoron interrupted his musings.  "Whilst we stand here teasing Elrohir, we are not hastening to Elrond's chamber 'at once and without delay'.  I vote that we continue this inquest after we see your father—by which time it may no longer be necessary."

The others nodded in agreement and hurried through the Hall.  When they arrived at Elrond's sanctum, they were dismayed to see that Glorfindel was sitting by his side.  No, this was not good at all.

Much to their surprise, however, they were invited to sit down, and Elrond himself poured each of them a glass of wine.  "Of course," Elladan thought to himself, "Ada could just be trying to put us off our guard."  It would not have been the first time that their father had adopted such a strategy—usually with great success.

"I am glad that you have returned safely from the patrol," Elrond began.  "And Glorfindel here tells me that Taurmeldir has much to say in praise of all of you."

The young Elves looked at each other.  Should they feel relieved or apprehensive at Elrond's welcoming words?   

 Elrond well knew the effect he could have on his offspring and their friends, and he could not resist teasing them a little just now.  Besides, he thought regretfully, it might be long before he again had the opportunity.

"You are waiting for the other boot to drop, are you not?" he asked with a smile.

Nervously, the four young Elves nodded.

Elrond arose and circled around them until he stood behind Anomen.

"Anomen, your hair has grown out completely.  I see that you have rebraided it."

"Yes, Ada."

"Are you glad to have recovered your former hair color?  Or mayhap you preferred the darker shade?"

"Oh, no," cried Anomen.  "I like my own hair color.  And it is so good not to be subject to the teasing of everyone."

"You were teased?" said Elrond gravely.

"Yes—even by my friends," said Anomen, looking accusingly at Elrohir in particular.

"Ah, a pity then, that you cannot keep your hair."

"What!?"

"Yes, I must insist that you once again dye it the darker color."

"But, Ada, why!?"

"You ninny!" interrupted Elrohir excitedly.  "Don't you see?  You're going back to Mirkwood.  And that can only mean," he added, turning to his father, "that Anomen is to join the warriors in their assault on Dol Guldur."

Elrond nodded.

"But you have called us all here," Elrohir continued, his eyes gleaming, "and that can only mean—"

Elrond raised his hand to silence him.  "Elrohir, you strike me as somewhat impetuous—not a quality we are looking for on this mission."

Embarrassed, Elrohir looked down at the floor.

"But, yes, you are all going—unless something happens over the next few weeks to cause me to change my mind!"  He turned to Glorfindel.  "My friend, they are all yours."

Glorfindel arose.  "You will come with me to the armory.  You must be fitted for armor, and I want to see if you are capable of wielding weapons that are heavier than the ones you have been accustomed to.  From there it is off to the training fields with you.  You may plan on all but sleeping there until it comes time for the army to depart."

Glorfindel began to walk toward the door, the awed young Elves in tow, when Elrond called out, "Glorfindel, if I may have a word with Elladan and Elrohir."

Glorfindel nodded permission at Elrohir and Elladan, who realized from the gesture that they were no longer altogether the sons of Elrond.  They were also the warriors of Glorfindel, in all matters subject to the decisions of the balrog-slayer.

After Glorfindel, Thoron, and Anomen had left, Elrond resumed his seat and invited Elladan and Elrohir to do likewise.

"We have not talked of your mother in a long time."

"No," said Elladan softly, "we have not."

"It is needful to talk of her now."  Elrond took a deep breath.  "Elladan, Elrohir, I know that one reason you were so eager to go on patrol is that you hoped to encounter Orcs."

"Yes," agreed Elrohir, a glint in his eye.  Elrond noticed that he was tightly clutching the arms of his chair.  "Yes, and had we done so, we could have begun to wreak our vengeance.  But we have been forced to wait."

"You must continue to wait."

Startled, Elrohir cried out, "No!  We are going into battle!  May we not slay Orcs!?  If not, then why are you sending us!?"

"I did not say that you may not slay Orcs, and no doubt you shall.  But you must not be thinking of your mother as you do so.

"I think I know why," said Elladan, even more softly than before.  "Passion may be a distraction when it is necessary to make rapid decisions.  If we are thinking of our mother, we may not be noticing the Orcs that are outflanking us."

"Yes, Elladan."  Elrond turned to his other son.  "Elrohir, do you understand?"

Elrohir was trembling.  His voice shook as he answered, "But, Ada, when shall we be permitted our vengeance?"

"Never doubt that you shall avenge your mother.  When the battle is over, you will look about and see the bodies of the Orcs you have slain.  You must simply remember that you only achieve this vengeance if you are not thinking of it whilst you are in fact in the midst of accomplishing it."

"So," said Elladan, a little louder this time, "we will avenge our mother if we concentrate on the task at hand, without thought of vengeance, but if we _do strive for vengeance, we are likely to fall short."_

Elrond spoke bluntly.  "Yes, and you are likely to die, or to cause the deaths of your comrades whose welfare you neglect even as you seek justice for your mother."

Elrond turned again to Elrohir.  "My son, I lost your mother and my wife to Orcs.  I do not want to lose you.  Go into battle calmly, with your mind focused on winning the battle at minimal cost to our forces.  Have no other goal."

 Numbly, Elrohir nodded.  Elrond looked long and hard at him.  At last he arose.

"Glorfindel awaits you at the armory.  Go now.  We will speak more of this ere the army departs."

Elladan and Elrohir arose and bowed to their father.  Shortly after they left, Elrond heard a knock on the door.

"Enter."

Mithrandir walked quietly into the room and, without being invited, settled into a chair.  Elrond handed him a glass of wine.  For several minutes they sat silently together.  At last, Elrond cleared his throat.

"You are right, Mithrandir.  Elrohir is much too intent on avenging his mother."

"Yet he must still ride with the others."

"You think so?"

"Elrond, if you try to restrain him, his desire for vengeance will only grow until no amount of counsel will prompt him to act with discretion.  Talk with him often in the days to come.  Encourage him to vent some of his rage in words.  And pray to the Valar that when the time comes his ultimate good sense will master his fury.  In this you are lucky that he goes into battle with his brother.  His love for one member of his family may save him from risking destruction over the memory of another."

Elrond nodded, and he and Mithrandir raised their glasses in a silent toast to the memory of Celebrían.


	3. The Mustering

Welcome back _dragonfly_!  I was starting to wonder where you were!  And _Jebb, __gwil, and __Konzen, than you for the encouragement.  Now does anyone know where _MoroWolfGod_ has gotten to?  Tables turned and eaten by a warg, maybe?_

            Over the next few weeks, Elrond kept his promise to talk with his sons about their mother Celébrian.  Still, as the day drew near for the army to ride forth, he expressed his uneasiness to Mithrandir.

"Elrohir freely acknowledges that he must remain dispassionate whilst battling against the enemy.  Yet, although he understands the need to control himself, I am not persuaded that he will be able to do so when the time comes."

"That question can only be answered in the midst of a struggle with his foes and with himself."

"Would that it could be answered under other circumstances—safer circumstances!" cried Elrond in frustration.

Mithrandir calmly replied, "The nature of the question does not permit it to be answered under safer circumstances."

Elrond sighed and nodded.  "I am glad you ride with our forces, Mithrandir.  You will contribute much to our strength—and to my peace of mind!"

Mithrandir inclined his head slightly.  "I thank you for your confidence.  It is a pity, though, that Saruman did not agree to represent the Istar in this matter."

"Would it not be difficult for him to do so?  Erestor must remain here because I have Imladris to protect, and Celeborn must have Galadriel stay in Lothlórien for the same reason.   Saruman has Isengard to think of, and, by all accounts, he has no one to whom he is willing to delegate its protection.  You, on the other hand, are encumbered by the need to defend no particular realm.  Not for nothing are you known as the 'Grey Wanderer'!"

"Yet I defend many lands," said Mithrandir gravely.

"Yes," agreed Elrond, "but you are only able to do so by never remaining for long in any one of them.  It is a hard life that you lead, my friend."

"True, and I weary of it from time to time.  Indeed, I must confess that one reason I am drawn to the study of the Periannath is that they live such settled lives—and they make me laugh.  Although, lately I have a foreboding that my comfortable, light-hearted Hobbits will be drawn into the events that will be set in motion by the battle for Dol Guldur.  I cannot explain why I feel this to be so."

Elrond replied with mock gravity.  "I fear that you have spent too much time in the company of Galadriel.  Are we to have nothing but presentiments all the live-long day here in Rivendell as well as in Caras Galadhon?"

Mithrandir laughed, but his mirth was brief and was replaced by thoughtfulness.

While this conversation took place, Glorfindel was supervising the mustering of the patrols that were to ride forth.  Anomen and his friends had never seen so many Elves gathered together in one place, and more and more patrols were arriving hourly.  At length, they spotted Berenmaethor's patrol riding into the clearing and setting up camp.

"Look," said Elladan, "Berenmaethor's patrol has also added some young members."

            The others looked over toward that captain's warriors.

            Thoron exclaimed, "Why, there is my cousin, Baramagor.  Anomen, pity he is not in _our patrol, for he is younger even than you.  None of us would ever have to wash another dish!"_

            The four friends laughed.

            "That is a good name for a warrior," observed Anomen.  "Baramagor—'Eager Swordsman'."

            "Oh," smiled Thoron.  "His mother chose that name for him—but she wasn't thinking of his future as a wielder of weapons.  Baramagor came early, and his mother swore that sword thrusts could never match the pain he caused her.  Ever since then, he has always rushed to be the first at everything, so I am not surprised to see him amongst the warriors.  Come, let us greet him."

            "We'd better ask Taurmeldir first," Elladan pointed out.  "We can't just go strolling about from patrol to patrol."

            "Elladan is right," agreed Anomen.  "We are on a war footing now; discipline is going to be strict even by Glorfindel's standards!"

            The four friends sought and received leave to briefly visit Thoron's cousin but to be quick about it.  They hurried over toward Berenmaethor's campfire and quickly explained their errand to the guard—for even encamped within Imladris a watch was being set.

            "Thoron," exclaimed Baramagor as soon as he saw his cousin.  "As you see, I am a warrior now."

            "Oh, indeed," replied Thoron.  "Have you ever been in battle?"

            Abashed, Baramagor had to admit that he had not.

            "Then you are a warrior-in-waiting, is that not so?"

            "Yes, but," Baramagor shot back, "I shall not have to wait long."

Thoron had to admit it was likely that Baramagor was correct on this score.  Just then they spotted Taurmeldir's lieutenant beckoning to them and they hastened to return to their camp, where Taurmeldir wished to give his scouts some final instructions before ordering them to turn in for the night.  Departure the next day would take place before dawn.

They encountered no foes as they moved through Dunland, although all sensed that they were being watched by the wary Dunlendings.  They reached the Gap of Rohan without incident, and there they were met by a goodly company of Rohirrim.  Those horsemasters would not join in the battle for Dol Guldur itself—their strength lay in cavalry maneuvers on the open plain—but they would escort the Imladris Elves to their rendezvous with the Lothloríen and Mirkwood forces.  They would then remain encamped on the plain to the west of Dol Guldur, protecting the Elves from any attack from the west that might be mounted by Orcs and wargs crossing east from strongholds in the Misty Mountains.

With the Rohirrim was a smaller band of Men who held themselves apart from the others.  They were tall, grim-faced men, grey-eyed and grey-haired.  Even the youngest of them looked agéd in face, but all were hale and muscular.  Anomen suspected that some of them were youths even in the accounting of Men, but that they had led hard, wandering lives.  Certainly their garments, although well made and of first-rate fabric, were worn and weather-stained.  Their boots were sturdy but scuffed and muddy.  These were Men who had spent few, if any, days comfortably ensconced before a fireplace.

"Who are they?" Anomen asked Taurmeldir.

"Those Men?  They are Rangers."

"Rangers?"

"The last remnant of a proud race.  They came out of Gondor long ago."

"Gondor!?  So far to the South?"

 "Yes, they have wandered far from their homeland.  They journey, I am told, even as far North as that strange land that Mithrandir has taken an interest in—almost to the Grey Havens, in fact."

"What drove them forth from their land in the South?"

"I do not know the whole story.  You must ask the Lord Elrond.  He has memory of those events."

"Are they to fight alongside us or to remain with the Rohirrim?"

 "Glorfindel has told the captains that the Rangers will fight alongside us.  I for one am glad of that fact.  They are few in number, but they have a reputation as fearless and doughty fighters.  They are brave by nature, and I am told they have an ancient grievance against the evil in Dol Guldur.  What it is, I do not know, but it is said to date back to the time of the Last Alliance.  Their leader is a Man named Arathorn, son of Arador.  The others are his kinsman.  I have met a few of the youngest of their company.  That one over there is called Halbarad.  He has actually been known to smile upon occasion, although I am told that the older the Rangers grow, the dourer they become."

Anomen's curiosity was piqued rather than satisfied by Taurmeldir's explanation.  "So the Rangers are exiles," he thought.  "We have something in common then!  I would like to meet and talk with one of them.  And I think I would like to fight alongside one of them, too, if they are as brave as Taurmeldir claims."

For now, though, he would have to content himself with watching the strangers from afar.  They were leagues from Imladris, and there was to be no more strolling about.  Even Thoron and Baramagor were reduced to waving at one another from time to time from their respective campfires.

The next day the combined forces moved out, making for Lothlórien.  From there, with their strength augmented the Galadhrim archers, they would make the westward crossing of the plains, meeting up with Thranduil's army at the eastern fringe of Mirkwood.  And then—then they would fight.

Next: The battle for Dol Guldur.


	4. False Colors

**Folks, the battle for Dol Guldur doesn't**** start in this chapter—sorry!  (Ducks warg bones being thrown at her head)  I had to reintroduce Haldir and his brothers, plus I seized the opportunity to have Galadriel and Mithrandir spar a bit over whether Anomen should return to Mirkwood disguised or not. I will get the army positioned for the battle in the next installment.   If I don't quite reach the battle in the next chapter, I swear that it will be in the one after that.  These characters have a history now and can't help but tease and reminisce whenever they get together.**

            Great was the relief of the Elves when they reached Lothlórien.  Glorfindel had promised that once they were in that blesséd land, discipline would be lifted for a few days.  The Rohirrim, however, could not be enticed into entering Celeborn and Galadriel's realm.  Politely but firmly, they insisted on camping to the east of that land.  Some Elves said that the Rohirrim believed that Galadriel was a sorceress who would enchant anyone who looked upon her.

            "What an idea!" exclaimed Elrohir indignantly, and for once Elladan was just as offended as his brother.  Galadriel was their grandmother, after all.  It was long before either Elf could look upon a horsemaster without scowling.

            Curiously enough, the other Men, the Rangers, suffered from no such trepidation.  They entered Lórien as confidently as any Elf.

            "I have heard," said Taurmeldir when Anomen asked him about this, "that Elven blood runs in the veins of those exiles.  They are at home equally in the lands of Men and of Elves."

            That seemed plausible enough.  Elrond himself was known as Peredhil, the Half-elven, for his father was Eärendil the Mariner, whose lineage could be traced back to the royal house of the Noldor, whilst his mother was Elwing, a descendant of the House of Bëor.  Anomen knew that there had been other such alliances between Men and Elf, although there had been none such during the Third Age.

            Once in Lórien, Anomen and Thoron were anxious to introduce Elrohir and Elladan to Haldir and his brothers.  They headed straight for the shelter that Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin shared with their patrol.  They congratulated themselves upon arriving when they realized that they were just in time for supper.  They had had more than enough of trail food.

            "Anomen, Thoron, I had wondered if you two would be included in the riding!" exclaimed Haldir when he caught sight of his two friends.  "Rúmil, Orophin, look who has shown up in time to do the dishes!"

            "Oh, no," protested Anomen.  "We are guests.  We mean to do nothing but eat.  _You_ can do the dishes."

            The clearing rang with the laughter of exuberant young Elves who could forget for a time that they were soon to go into battle.

            "Who are your new friends?" asked Rúmil.

            Quickly Anomen introduced everyone.  "This is Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin.  And this is Elladan and Elrohir."

            "How do you tell them apart?" asked Orophin.

            "Oh, it's easy for anyone who spends time with them.  But sometimes we have fun playing tricks on visitors newly arrived in Rivendell."

            "No tricks on us," warned Haldir.

            "Why ever would you think that we would play tricks on _you, Haldir," said Anomen, with the straightest face that he could muster._

            Rúmil and Orophin collapsed in laughter at that.  Haldir glared at them.

            "You two haven't any right to laugh.  If I remember correctly—"

            Orophin hastily interrupted.  "Let's all go over to Haldir's talan and sing and carouse the night away.  We are not leaving for a few days, for Glorfindel, Mithrandir, Celeborn, and Galadriel will have much to discuss.  That means that we can sleep late tomorrow and mayhap even the day after."

 This plan was agreeable to all.  After they had all ascended to Haldir's flet, Rúmil couldn't resist teasing Haldir just a bit more.

"Haldir," he said in a stage whisper, gesturing toward Anomen, "don't you think that you should pull up the ladder and hide it?"

Elladan and Elrohir had heard from Anomen of his two escapes from Haldir's talan.

"Oh," grinned Elladan.  "Hiding the ladder won't do any good.  At home Anomen climbs down the trellis, and I am sure he could find a way down this tree with no trouble at all."

"Yes," agreed Elrohir.  "But I have heard that Glorfindel once planned to fasten a mithril collar around Anomen's neck and hang a troll-bell from it!  That way he could no longer escape undetected."

"An excellent idea," crowed Haldir.  "I think I have a collar that might do, as well as a bell." His eyes gleamed as he made as if he were going to tackle Anomen.  Just then a voice was heard from the base of the tree.  Celeborn and Galadriel had sent a messenger summoning Anomen to their talan.

"Oh, no," groaned Anomen.  "Am I to be interrogated again!"

"Better interrogated than tricked, as is always _my_ fate," gibed Haldir.

More laughter ensued, and amidst the farewells of his friends, Anomen descended from the flet and accompanied the messenger to the talan of the Lord and Lady.

When he entered the talan, he saw that only the Lady was there, but Mithrandir arrived soon after.  Galadriel invited them both to sit down and offered them refreshments.

 "Anomen," she observed, "I see that you have once again dyed your hair."

"Yes, my Lady.  As I am going to Mirkwood, I thought it would be wise."

"Mirkwood?"

"Mirkwood," Mithrandir interjected, "is Anomen's name for Greenwood.  I think you will find that the Imladris Elves have generally adopted that term as the preferred name for Thranduil's realm."

"It does seem a far more fitting name in these times than does Greenwood," mused the Lady.  "Sometimes a change of names is appropriate.  And sometimes other changes are appropriate—or not.  Anomen, speaking of that, perhaps you would like some assistance in returning to your former hair color.  I have a potion that I think will remove the dye."

"No, thank you, Lady," replied a very puzzled Anomen.  "In fact, I am going to dye it again just before the army departs from Lothlórien.  The lighter color is growing in again."  

            "So you do not wish to enter Mirkwood under your own hair—or under your own name?"

            Anomen professed to be confused.  "I do not understand, Lady."

            Galadriel smiled.  "You may have outwitted the wizard of Isengard, but it is much harder to fool a sorceress—oh, yes, I know what the Rohirrim say of me, and you may tell Elladan and Elrohir that they need not be so indignant on my behalf!"

            Anomen began to protest, but Mithrandir raised his hand to silence him.

            "Galadriel, I understand no more than does Anomen your purpose in summoning him here."

            "Do you not, Mithrandir?"

            "Surely you must know that your purposes have ever been clear only to you alone.  You are, as always, Galadriel—gracious but enigmatic."

            "In this matter you are choosing to be enigmatic yourself, Mithrandir."

            "I will take that as a compliment, my Lady.  We both know that it is sometimes useful to be mysterious—and let us apply that observation to our young friend here.  Let him parade under false colors for the time being."

            "False colors indeed," laughed Galadriel.  "Are you now a riddler as well as a wizard?"

            "I am myself a riddle, my Lady."

"Oh, yes, I can well believe that!  A riddle wrapped in an enigma—that is what you are!"

"Very eloquently put, my Lady.  I shall have to remember that phrase."  The wizard arose.  "And now, if you will excuse us, I will see to it that Anomen returns safely to Haldir's talan, with no detours, such as, oh, to Rohan or to Dunland or to Eregion."

            Anomen blushed, and both Galadriel and Mithrandir laughed.  Their laughter, however, was gentle, and Anomen quickly recovered once he found himself striding by the side of the wizard.

            "Thank you, Mithrandir."

            "Oh, and for what?"

            "For standing up for me."

            "I hardly think that I was 'standing up' for you.  You make it sound as if I were defending you from an assailant.  Galadriel is not your foe.  She was merely trying to push you in the right direction.  For my part, knowing your predilection for, ah, journeying, I am confident that, given enough time, you will _wander _toward the correct destination.  Not without cause did Thoron dub you 'Durrandîr'.  And, so, my 'Dark Wanderer', I hope to see you arrive at the right place in the end!"

            "I think I am in the right place now, Mithrandir."

            "Well, well, let us agree that you are in the right place for the time being."

            Anomen wasn't quite satisfied with the outcome of this conversation, but it would have to do for now.


	5. The Mist

_Jebb__: There was some sort of glitch with chapter 3.  I couldn't access my own chapter, although apparently some people could.  So when I posted 4, I simultaneously took down 3 and reposted it.  Hopefully, all 4 chapters previous to this one are now accessible._

_FarFlung__:  So far I'm not getting sick of the characters because their stories seem to be getting more complex over time.  And, yes, with the chronology (a thousand years, really), there could be lots more stories!  ("Is that a threat or a promise!?" gasped the reader.)_

_Gwil__: I'm glad you didn't mind that I took a time-out to tease Haldir!_

_Starlit Hope: _Wow—coolness—the ultimate accolade!

_Joee1: _Thank you for the encouragement.  This is kind of a case study in B.F. Skinner's 'Operant Conditioning'.  I write a chapter, somebody encourages me, I write a chapter, somebody encourages me, I write a chapter….  Hmm, I'm sort of like Pavlov's dog: ring a bell and I slaver.

_MoroTheWolfGod_: Yay!  You weren't eaten by a Warg!  Instead, you were devoured by—Pokemon?

_Dragonfly32_:  Yep.  You want to keep your eye on Elrohir.

            The horseplay and merriment that Anomen and his friends had enjoyed in Lothlórien seemed part of a distant past as the combined force of Elves and Men drew near to southern Mirkwood.  Anomen had not caught so much as a glance of Haldir and his brothers since they had rejoined their respective patrols; nor had Thoron seen his cousin Baramagor.  Quiet and disciplined, each patrol had concentrated on preparing for the battle to come.

            Thranduil's army was already encamped to the north and west of Dol Guldur when the armies of Elrond and Celeborn arrived at the fringes of Mirkwood.  The Rohirrim, as planned, had set up camp on the plain to protect the elven army's eastern flank, where Celeborn's warriors would take up their position.  Elrond's army would circle around until his patrols were south of Dol Guldur.

Anomen had seen Rangers from time to time during the crossing of the plains but saw none now as Elrond's warriors marched into Mirkwood, having left their horses in the care of the Rohirrim.  He asked Taurmeldir whether the Rangers were not after all to fight alongside the Elves.

"Oh, yes, they will be with us.  The Rangers are already inside Mirkwood and have been so for several days.  They are excellent scouts and have gone on ahead to reconnoiter.  They should return shortly to report to Elrond and the others."

Anomen was impressed.  The elf-lords placed much confidence in these Men.

As an elfling, Anomen had heard many tales of Dol Guldur, and he could not suppress a shudder at the thought that he and his friends were going up against the evil within that tower.  After several days of marching within the forest of Mirkwood, they drew within striking distance of the fortress.  Soon the Rangers returned, and after hearing their reports, Elrond and Glorfindel made the final plans for the disposition of their forces.  Taurmeldir's patrol, being accustomed to forest maneuvers, was one of those placed on the front line.  Beremaethor's patrol was to the rear of Taurmeldir's, much to the relief of Thoron, for now his young cousin would not be in the vanguard.  Glorfindel's warriors were to the left of Tauermeldir's, on a rise that gave Glorfindel some hope that he would be able to keep apprised of the movements of Orcs and Elves.

            During the march through the forest, no Orcs or wargs had been sighted, but their spoor was plentiful, and Anomen knew from experience that they lurked in southern Mirkwook.  Taurmeldir told Anomen and his friends that Elrond and the other leaders were sure that such creatures would be thrown into battle against them at the earliest opportunity.

            "Some leaders might protect their own by attempting to outwait a besieging army within the safety of walls such as those, but the power that controls Dol Guldur will not hesitate to surrender the lives of others, be they Men or Orcs.  It matters not to him how many of his creatures fall.  To him they mean nothing, and if sacrificing scores of his servants leads to the death of even one Elf, he will be content."

Taurmeldir spoke truly.  One evening a mist rolled outward from the tower.  In his place beside Elrond, Mithrandir knew what it signified.

"Elrond, my vision cannot pierce that mist, but I warrant that within it are score upon score of our foes."

"Mithrandir," Elrond replied dryly, "it needed no wizard to advise me of _that_."

Mithrandir had to smile.  It was to be the last shred of humor that either would enjoy for quite some time.

From his position on the front line, Taurmeldir also saw the mist approaching.  He ordered his men to fire into it as soon as it was within bow range.

"But Taurmeldir," said Elladan, "I cannot see my target."

"It matters not.  By the time our enemies are close enough to be seen, it will be too late to make use of our bows.  Better to shoot blindly and take out some of our foes than to hold fire for want of a clear shot."

The Elves shot a volley into the oncoming mist and were rewarded by the shrieks and howls of Orcs and wargs as some of the missiles did indeed hit home.  But the mist never paused in its advance.  The Elves shot a second volley, and a third.  And then the mist was upon them.  They were surrounded by a darkness that was filled with Orcs and wargs and snarls and scimitars.  None of the surrounding patrols could have assisted them because they could not have fired into the melee without the risk of hitting their fellow Elves.  Moreover, those patrols themselves had come under assault.

Little by little, their enemies began to overwhelm them.  Some Elves lay dead, hacked by scimitars or slashed by ravening teeth.  Others were wounded but remained on their feet.  "Fall back," shouted Taurmeldir at last.  The warriors obeyed, pressed on three sides by Orcs and wargs.  Taurmeldir waited until the last of the Elves had retreated past his position, then he fell in as the rear guard.  Step by step he slowly gave ground, forcing his foes to pay dearly for every inch they took.  Anomen looked back through the now-lightening mist as he drew close to the relative safety of Berenmaethor's lines.  "Thoron," he cried, "I think Taurmeldir is going to be cut off!"  Anomen and Thoron began to run toward their captain, but Taurmeldir, glancing over his shoulder to see if his warriors were nearing safety, saw them coming.  "Retreat," he shouted.  "I order you to retreat."  He parried a thrust from one of his foes.  As he moved, a tree blocked the young Elves from any further view of the battle.

            Elladan and Elrohir had not seen Taurmeldir's peril and had made it to Berenmaethor's patrol.  They were shouting now for their two friends to follow.  Anomen and Thoron hesitated a moment and then turned and plunged back toward Berenmaethor's position.  Quickly they found gaps in the lines where warriors had fallen, and they turned their attention to fending off the wargs and Orcs that, having swept past Taurmeldir's patrol, were now intent on smashing through this new front.

            Glorfindel's warriors had at last dislodged their own opponents, who had surmounted the rise from which the elf-lord had hoped to supervise the battle.  After seeing that his Elves had resecured the position, Glorfindel detached some of his warriors to go to Berenmaethor's aid.  With the addition of these forces, the Elves began to beat back their enemies.  The Orcs fought heedlessly, which made them fearsome but in the end vulnerable to more reasoned opponents.  Little by little, the Elves gained the advantage.  Shortly before dawn, the last of the Orcs had either fallen or fled.

            Berenmaethor began to check his lines.  He stopped first by Baramagor, who was pale and trembling.

            "Are you injured, Baramagor?"

            "No, Berenmaethor, but my stomach, ah, my stomach—"

            Beremaethor, a very experienced warrior, gently took Baramagor by the shoulders and turned him about.

            "See that tree over there?  I suggest you go round to the other side of it."

            Baramagor nodded gratefully and staggered around to the far side of the tree so that he would not embarrass himself.  After a few minutes he reappeared looking a little less queasy, albeit no less pale.

            Beremaethor went on to check on other Elves, coming at last to Anomen.

             "You are from Taurmeldir's patrol."

            "Yes.  Our position was overrun, and Taurmeldir ordered us to retreat to your lines."

            "Where is he?"

            "I do not know.  He took the rear guard.  When I last saw him, he had not yet reached your lines."

            "The area is clear of enemies.  Go and look for him now.  I fear he may have been wounded."

            Anomen and his friends headed back toward where he and Thoron had last seen their captain.  When they did not find him immediately, they spread out, although keeping within sight of one another, and began to methodically comb the forest.

            It was Anomen who found him.  He removed his cloak and tenderly placed it over his captain before he called to the others.  They hastened over and bowed their heads in grief when they saw that Anomen had covered Taurmeldir's face.  Only one hand lay outside the cloak.  In it, he still clutched his sword, blackened with the blood of Orcs and Wargs.  The four stood silently for awhile.  At last Elladan roused them.

            "We need to fashion a bier to carry him to Berenmaethor."

            The others nodded solemnly.  They cut green saplings that would not crack under the weight of the body.  After they had lashed the saplings together, Elladan, Elrohir, and Thoron covered it with their cloaks.  Then, raising Taurmeldir as gently as if he were a sleeper they did not want to awaken, they laid him upon the bier.  Beside him they laid his sword.  Each of the four young warriors grasped the end of a pole, and they began to pace toward Berenmaethor's position.  Their grief, not the weight of the body, caused them to walk slowly.

            All warriors not injured arose to their feet as they saw the young Elves approaching with their burden.  Berenmaethor stepped forward, his face solemn.

            "We have had the victory this day, but the cost would be too high even if Taurmeldir had been the only one to fall."

            He stood beside the bier for a time, his head bowed, as he remembered his friend.   At last he raised his head and lifted the sword from the bier.  Carefully he wiped it clean of all traces of the blood that had befouled it.

            "This sword I will safeguard.  Taurmeldir left a son.  His weapon shall be preserved against the day when that son shall wield it in his turn."

            Taurmeldir had a son?  Anomen had not known this.  He squeezed his eyes shut as he sorrowed for another son who would grow up without a father.

            "Anomen."  It was Berenmaethor speaking.  "You and the others, gather dry wood for a funeral pyre.  We will let neither Taurmeldir nor the others be despoiled by swarming or crawling or digging creatures."

            Anomen nodded wordlessly, and he and his friends found some relief in throwing themselves whole-heartedly into performing this last office for Taurmeldir and the other fallen warriors.  Other uninjured Elves hauled the fallen Orcs and wargs into one giant heap so that the entire forest would not be defiled by their carcasses.  They did not, however, trouble themselves to gather wood for a pyre for their enemies.

            "Let them be gnawed upon by creatures only a little less foul than themselves," said Berenmaethor grimly.  Nor would the Elves spare the effort to dig a pit.  The lowliest denizens of the forest would have to dispose of the carrion heap.

            The only mercy the Elves showed that day was to dispatch injured Orcs by cleanly cutting their throats.  They did not take Orcs prisoner, for the creatures could be neither reformed nor redeemed.  The Orcs themselves took prisoners only when they meant to torture them, with no thought of ever exchanging them for those of their own kind.  To an Orc, no life had value, not even that of a kinsman.  Indeed, the very idea of kin was foreign to these creatures.  Although they walked on two feet like Men, they had more in common with ravening beasts, for they followed commands only out of fear or hunger, never out of any higher motivation.

            After the injured and slain Elves had been removed and the battlefield cleansed of Orcs and wargs, Glorfindel came by to tell them that he had decided not to appoint a new captain for the remnants of Taurmeldir's patrol.  Rather the uninjured or lightly injured survivors would join Berenmaethor's scouts.  As the day drew to a close, then, Anomen and the others settled themselves amongst their new comrades.  Listlessly, they ate the rations that were doled out to them.  As they finished eating, Anomen mechanically arose and began to gather dishes.  Baramagor stopped him.  "I am the youngest in this patrol, Anomen.  I am the one responsible for washing the dishes each night."

            Anomen could not help himself.  He wept.  "I would wash dishes all my immortal life," he thought to himself, "if only I could once again be the youngest in a patrol led by Taurmeldir."

            Anomen's friends understood his grief but could think of nothing to say.  Instead, when Anomen at last lay down to rest, Thoron and Elladan and Elrohir and Baramagor all drew their sleeping rolls close together around him.  Huddled thus in a clump, the young Elves at last succumbed to an exhaustion that the turmoil in their minds could no longer stave off.  Berenmaethor arranged the watch so that they were not called on that night.

            The next morning, Berenmaethor detailed Anomen to serve as a runner for the day.  One of his errands took him to Glorfindel's tent.  After he had delivered a message, Glorfindel gestured for him to sit on a camp chair.

            "You are no doubt feeling great sorrow over the death of your captain."

            Anomen nodded.

            "Taurmeldir had the greatest of respect for you, Anomen."

            "And I failed him!" Anomen burst out in grief and shame.

            "Why do you say so?"

            "Glorfindel, Thoron and I saw that Taurmeldir was in trouble.  We started to go toward his aid, but Taurmeldir ordered us to continue our retreat.  Glorfindel, if we had gone back to help Taurmeldir, he wouldn't have died."

            Glorfindel replied calmly, "Had you and Thoron returned to his side, Taurmeldir would have died nonetheless.  Worse, his death would have been all the more bitter for his friends because you would have rendered his sacrifice meaningless.  Taurmeldir was not one to throw away his life without cause.  He knew that the situation was such that only through death could he guarantee the safety of his warriors.  But to that end, he saw that only his death was necessary.  And so he forbade you from aiding him because he did not want you to die needlessly.  You must respect his judgment in this matter, as he always respected yours."

            "I thank you for your words, Glorfindel, but they do not lift my grief."

"They were not intended to lift your grief, Anomen.  For why should you not grieve?  No, it is the burden of shame that you should not feel compelled to carry.  Your captain gave you an order.  You obeyed it, and by doing so you secured for Taurmeldir one final victory over his foes."

"Thank you for your words, Glorfindel.  I think—I think I can bear the grief now, but the shame would have been too heavy for me."

"Good.  May you bear as light a load as may be, for it is all too likely that in the days to come you will have to assume additional burdens."

"And I pray," said Glorfindel to himself as Anomen took his leave, "that the weight does not become too much for him."


	6. Dead Weight

            As evening brought to an end Anomen's day as a runner, he hastened back to his patrol's encampment to join his comrades in the evening meal.  When the scouts had finished eating, Baramagor began to gather the dishes.  Anomen arose and began to help him.

            "Anomen—" began Baramagor.

            "Yes, yes, I know.  _You are the youngest.  But __I was the youngest in Taurmeldir's patrol, and, since our warriors are joining forces, it seems sensible that __we should join forces as skivvies."_

            "You don't mind?"

            "Not at all."

            "And you think Berenmaethor won't mind?"

            "If he does, you may be sure that he will not hesitate to say so.  Unless he does, you must let me share this duty."

            Baramagor nodded his head, and together the two Elves lugged the dishes to a nearby creek and scoured them.  As they labored, Anomen found himself talking as freely with Baramagor as he did with any of his other friends.  Baramagor had much in common with Thoron, although, being younger, he lacked his cousin's confidence.

Baramagor and Anomen returned to their campfire still chatting amiably, a fact that Berenmaethor noticed with interest.  Later he called Anomen aside.

            "Anomen, I have a task for you."

            "Yes, Captain."

            "You are closer in age to Baramagor than any of the other Elves in this patrol, yet you have more experience in battle than he has.  I know that you are accustomed to joining forces with Thoron, but I would like you to watch Baramagor's back instead.  I do not want to be so obvious as to ask his cousin Thoron to look after him—Baramagor would resent that, I think—but he does need someone to keep an eye on him.  You seem to get along well together, and I suspect he would be grateful if you were to pay attention to him."  

            Anomen hesitated.  "I would do so, but what of Thoron?"

            "I will ask Thoron to select another partner for the time being.  He will understand.  Baramagor is, after all, his cousin.  He will want to see him kept safe."

"That is true.  Very well, Captain, I will try to stay near him and watch out for him."

Anomen was able to keep his promise that very night.  He and his friends had hardly rolled up in their blankets, clustered together as they had been the night before, when Berenmaethor's lieutenant roused them.

"A mist is forming," he whispered.  "Berenmaethor wants us all to be at the ready."  The young Elves got into position, Anomen making sure to slip into a space beside Baranmagor.  He glanced over at Thoron, who was separated from him by several scouts.  Thoron smiled at him and mouthed the words "Thank you."

The mist began to creep toward them.  As Taurmeldir had during the previous skirmish, Barenmaethor ordered them to shoot into the vapors even though they could not make out their enemies.  Oddly, this time they heard no sound after they had released a volley of arrows—not a shriek, not a howl.  The uncanny silent was not broken by the second volley either, nor the third.  Anomen found that he was sweating.  Silence, he was learning, can be as unnerving as any sound.  He had little time to contemplate this discovery, however, for the mist was upon them—and it was empty.

Confused, the Elves stood silently as the mist passed them by and then dissipated.

"I do not understand," said Baramagor.  "Where are our enemies?"

"I think," said Anomen slowly, "that this mist was meant to attack our spirits rather than our bodies."

"Yes," said one of the older Elves.  "It is well known that when the mind becomes unstrung, so too does the body.  The Orcs do not understand this, but the power within Dol Guldur does."

Berenmaethor and his lieutenant conversed in terse whispers, and then Berenmaethor's lieutenant came over to tell them that they could stand down.  The watch was reset, and the Elves began to drift back toward their bedrolls.  Baramagor lagged behind the rest.  To Anomen's eyes, he seemed to have been greatly unnerved by the phantom assault.  Concerned, he slowed his pace until he was walking alongside Baramagor.  Suddenly the young Elf stopped and clutched his belly.

            "Anomen, ah, my stomach—I don't think I'm going to make it to a tree!"

            "No one's watching but me, and I'll never tell."

Anomen held Baramagor's shoulders as the younger Elf leaned over and retched.  When he was finished, he looked at Anomen apologetically.

"I am so sorry, Anomen."

"Oh, don't be troubled, Baramagor.  If you don't mind me saying so, I'm delighted to see you retching your guts out because it shows that you still have guts _to retch out!  The alternative is pretty gruesome, don't you think?"_

Baramagor turned pale again and doubled over once more.

"Um, Baramagor, I guess I shouldn't have said that."

Baramagor's shoulders were shaking.

"Maybe I should fetch Berenmaethor," said Anomen, alarmed now.

Baramagor raised his head, and Anomen was amazed to see that he was laughing.

"Anomen, that was a dreadful joke, but, still, it _was_ a joke.

"He's right," Anomen thought to himself, with amazement, "I just told a joke."  Nervously he said to Baramagor, "Do you suppose it's all right to tell jokes so soon after so many have died?  You don't think I'm being disrespectful, do you?"

Baramagor shook his head.  "No, you don't sound any different than Berenmaethor does sometimes.  No matter how grim the situation, he can say the most outrageous things—and with an impossibly straight face, too!  Yesterday morning, after breakfast, he asked me how I had enjoyed my dancing lesson.  I answered in all seriousness, 'What dancing lesson?'  Berenmaethor said, "Why the dancing lesson last night."  What an idiot I am!  I fell into his trap and replied, 'But last night I was fighting'.  'Oh,' said Berenmaethor, 'is _that _what you were doing with that Orc?  And here I thought you were _dancing_!"

Anomen actually giggled.  "Berenmaethor said something like that to me after we skirmished with the Dunlendings.  And when I told Thoron about it, _he_ told me that Taurmeldir had said the same to _him after _his _first battle!  I think all the captains must twit their novices with that very joke.  I'll bet Gil-galad once said the same to Elrond!"                      _

   Baramagor grinned.  "I would have liked to have seen _that_!  Do you suppose Elrond once had to scour pots?"

"Oh, without a doubt.  And Glorfindel, too."  Anomen's eyes were sparkling.  "After all, Glorfindel had to have been a novice, too.  I'll bet every threat he has uttered at me was once directed at his own head!"

"What has he said?"

"Well, one time he was mightily vexed—I think it was the second time that he had been forced to stay up all night leading a patrol in search of me—and he had hold of my arm and was dragging me off to see Elrond.  'I am glad you have come back in one piece', he said, 'because I am going to skin you someday and I wouldn't want anyone to beat me to it'."

Now Baramagor was giggling.  "Were you frightened?"

"Yes, because I didn't know any better.  I thought he was serious.  There were a few times when, if I'd been trapped between Glorfindel and an Orc, I'd have run toward the Orc!"

Baramagor doubled over again, but this time it was in an attempt to stifle his laughter.

"Oh, Anomen," he gasped.  "You are going to cause me to make so much noise that the Orcs will be able to target us by the sound!"

"Haldir claims that he can aim for a target just by listening to it breathe—but I don't believe him."

Berenmaethor came up to them then.

"You should be resting—and if you will not rest, at least keep quiet so that the rest of us may!"

Berenmaethor kept his face straight, but the two young Elves couldn't keep similar control of theirs.  Nor could they keep themselves from giggling.  Soon Elladan joined in.  Next Thoron was spluttering.  Finally even Elrohir was laughing softly.

"Well," observed Berenmaethor's lieutenant, "at least this shows that the mist did not unstring _their nerves."_

"No," replied Berenmaethor, "but if they don't settle down soon, they are going to unstring _mine."_

The next morning the whole patrol seemed to have woken up with spirits renewed.  And a good thing that proved to be, too, because something quite unexpected happened.

Shortly after breakfast, they were attacked in full daylight.

The evil in Dol Guldur must have been powerful indeed to drive Orcs and wargs into battle while the sun shone high overhead.  Indeed, the fell creatures fought as if they had been maddened.  So frenzied was their attack that the Elves at first gained very little advantage from the fact that they could see their foes clearly.

Anomen and Baramagor were heading toward the creek when the first wave of Orcs and wargs swept past the sentries and crashed into the front lines.

"Our bows!" cried Baramagor.  "We haven't got our bows!"

"No, but we have got our swords!  Come on!"

Casting aside the dishes, the two drew their swords and raced back toward their companions.  When they reached the camp, they saw that bows would have been of little use.  Grappling hand-to-hand, hand-to-jaw, the camp was a chaos of intermingled wargs, Elves, and Orcs.  Anomen and Baramagor plunged into the swirling mass of combatants and began trying to hew their way toward Thoron, Elladan, and Elrohir, who had formed themselves into a circle.  In that fashion the three of them were holding at bay at least twice that number of Orcs and wargs.

Anomen and Baramagor had nearly reached their friends when more Orcs and wargs came pouring into the camp, forming a wedge that came between the two young Elves and drove them apart.  Anomen glanced toward Thoron and the others and saw that they were holding their own.  He gave up trying to reach them and decided to attempt to regain Baramagor's side.

This latest onslaught of their enemies had driven Baramagor clear to the other side of the camp.  An enormous Orc, at least a head taller than his fellows, spotted the isolated young Elf and, leering, came after him.  "This one's mine," he growled, and the other Orcs left him to his sport.  With one mighty blow, the creature knocked Baramagor's sword from his hand.  Baramagor darted behind a tree, and for several agonizing minutes Elf and Orc played a deadly game of tag, the hulking creature jabbing at the agile Elf, who dodged back and forth, trying always to keep the tree trunk between himself and his foe.  At last, however, a fallen branch rolled under Baramagor's feet, and he slipped, landing on his back and looking up at the Orc, who, with a sneer on its face, raised its scimitar to finish him off.

The scimitar fell, sticking into the ground beside Baramagor's head.  The Orc stood for a moment, a look of surprise on his face.  Then his knees buckled, and the creature fell forward, Anomen's sword embedded in its back.

The huge Orc had fallen full-length on Baramagor, but Anomen had no time to drag his friend out from under the body.  He scarcely had wrenched his sword from the carcass when he had to turn and fend off another enormous Orc.  It was just as well, however, for Baramagor was now as safely situated as it was possible to be, fully covered as he was by the dead Orc.  Had the beast not stank so much, Baramagor would have been quite comfortable.

Anomen heard shouting and realized that more combatants were pouring into the camp—but these were Rangers.  Taurmeldir had been right.  As warriors, these Men were fearless and doughty.  Thus reinforced, the Elves began to make headway against their assailants.  Little by little, the Orcs and wargs were forced from the camp.

When the last of the enemy had been slain or driven away, Anomen turned his attention back to Baramagor, who had been patiently waiting whilst trying hard not to breathe in the odor of Orc.  Anomen grasped one of the Orc's wrists and tried to pull the carcass off of his friend.

            "Umph, ah, Baramagor, this beast is heavy."

            "You don't have to tell _me_ that," gasped Baramagor.

            Anomen tried again, tugging with all his might.  To his relief, the body slid off his friend—but then he realized that someone had taken hold of the Orc's other wrist and was helping him.  Surprised, he realized that it was one of the Rangers.

            "Oh," he stammered.  "I—I thank you, sir."

"You are very welcome," replied the Ranger.

            As Anomen stared at the Man, he realized that Taurmeldir had told him the name of this particular Ranger.

            "You are Halbarad, are you not, and you ride with Arathorn, son of Arador."

            "Yes, that is so.  And who may you be?"

            "Anomen, son of Elrond."

"Son of Elrond?"

"Foster-son of Elrond."

"And your friend?"

"Oh, my pardon!  This is my friend Baramagor."

Baramagor was sitting up now and was too curious about the Ranger to mind the fact that his friend had momentarily forgotten him.  The Man knelt down beside him.

"You do not look badly injured, but you must let me check.  I have some skill as a healer."

Baramagor nodded, and Halbarad checked him for broken bones.  Satisfied that the young Elf had none, he rose to his feet.

"I _am sorry," he said gravely.  "You have no serious injuries."_

"Sorry?" said Baramagor, confused.

"Yes, very sorry.  No doubt you will have some bruises, but nothing, alas, that will keep you out of tomorrow's battle."  The Ranger winked and moved on.

After he was gone, Baramagor quickly recovered his wits.  "Well, now we know what Rangers say to _their_ novices," he chortled.  He deepened his voice.  "Ahem, 'Nothing, alas, that will keep you from tomorrow's battle'."

Anomen noticed that Baramagor said nothing about his stomach, and, indeed, after that day it never bothered him again.

**Next installment: Elrohir confronts his demons.__**


	7. Elrohir Confronts His Demons

**Once again, I would like to thank the reviewers who are being so encouraging: _dragonfly32, MoroTheWolfGod, Jebb, and Konzen_.**

The morning after the second skirmish, Elrohir sat brooding by the campfire. In both skirmishes, he had slain several Orcs, but he didn't feel any closer to achieving vengeance for his mother.

"And now there is Taurmeldir to avenge as well," he thought bitterly.

Why could he feel no satisfaction in having felled several of the creatures whose kind had tormented Celebrían and butchered Taurmeldir?

"Perhaps," he mused, "it is because I haven't had time to exult. In a battle, everything happens so quickly. Having slain one enemy, I must turn to the next. I wish I had time to relish the death of each Orc who falls to my sword. Yes, that must be it; I am never able to take pleasure in the killing of my enemies. It happens; it is over."

Elrohir stood up, clenching and unclenching his hands. "I am going to _enjoy_ the next skirmish," he swore to himself.

The next battle, however, was long in coming. For two nights the Elves and Rangers were assaulted by nothing more than the eerie mist that the power in Dol Guldur could summon and dismiss at will. The third night, Orcs and wargs engaged in several sorties that proved to be no more than feints meant either to unnerve them or to test their defenses. Elrohir could only wait in frustration, and his rage grew by the minute. He could not understand how Elladan could sit so calmly, polishing his blades, checking the fletching of his arrows, all the while talking quietly with Anomen, Thoron, and Baramagor as if they were sitting in the armory at Rivendell preparing for an inspection by Glorfindel.

On the fourth night, Elrohir at last had a chance to put his resolution into effect. The mist began to creep toward them, and this time shrieks and howls could be heard as the Elves and Rangers fired into the vapors.

"At last," exulted Elrohir, "at last I will wreak my vengeance."

Elrohir seemed to have the strength of two Elves that night, but, ai! no sooner had he hacked down one foe, than another appeared to take its place. At last, however, the number of Orcs had been so diminished that he was able to skewer one of the beasts without another one immediately taking its place. Elrohir let the battle roll on past him and paused to relish his kill.

It was then that he realized that the Orc still lived. Elrohir's sword stroke had broken its hip and exposed its guts, but it still breathed. Moreover, it was conscious.

Breathing hard, Elrohir stood over the wounded Orc. The creature, although helpless, snarled up at him. Elrohir looked as if he were snarling himself, his lips curling back from his teeth as he glared down at his foe.

"I am going to have so much fun finishing you off," he taunted his enemy. The Orc did not know any words of Elvish, but Elrohir's face and voice made his meaning clear. The young Elf had the satisfaction of seeing a look of fear spread over the creature's face.

"Oh, yes," he gloated, "I have been looking forward to this moment for a long time—and I'm going to make it last." He prodded his prone victim with his sword and was pleased when it yelped in pain.

But it was another cry of pain that brought Elrohir back to his senses. Instantly forgetting the wounded Orc, Elrohir spun about and in a panic looked about the field for his twin.

"Elladan" he shouted. "Elladan, where are you!?" He caught sight of his brother desperately trying to fend off three Orcs. Elladan's shoulder had been slashed, and blood ran from the wound down his side as far as his thigh.

Elrohir charged across the field, and so great was his fear for his brother that he thrust his sword completely through one Orc and skewered a second. The third Orc spun about and raised his scimitar but never had a chance to bring it down. Elrohir hacked the Orc's hand clean from its wrist, and the severed claw fell into the dirt still scrabbling at its weapon. Before the Orc even had a chance to react to that injury, Elrohir had gutted him.

Elladan meanwhile had collapsed to the ground. His eyes were closed, his face pale, and his head flopped to one side. Elrohir knelt beside him and, seizing his uninjured shoulder, shook him. By then, Thoron, Baramagor, and Anomen, who had seen Elladan fall, had crossed the battlefield and reached them.

"Elrohir," protested Thoron. "Shaking him won't help!"

"What shall I do!? What shall I do!?"

"First," said Thoron, "calm down."

Elrohir nodded, but his eyes were wild with fear and he was gasping for breath. Anomen put his hand on his shoulder.

"Elrohir, take deep, slow breaths."

Elrohir did so, and he began to feel steadier.

"Here," said Thoron, ripping off a strip from his tunic. "Hold this to the wound and press down. He hasn't been cut in a vital area, so if we stop the bleeding and keep the wound clean, he should be alright. Anomen, go and fetch Elrond or Mithrandir."

Anomen leaped to his feet and ran off. "Fetch _both_ of them!" Elrohir shouted after him.

By the time Anomen returned with the elf-lord and Istar, Elladan had come out of his faint. He still looked a little pale, but he was swearing that he would be able to sit up if only Elrohir and Thoron would let him. The two were insisting, however, that he wait until a healer had looked him over.

Elrond had been hurrying to reach his son until he drew near and saw Elladan bickering with Elrohir and Thoron. Then he slowed to a more deliberate pace and let the mask of a commander slide over his face. Mithrandir, noticing the change in his friend's demeanor, had to hide a slight smile.

"So," said Elrond calmly, "I have been summoned to treat a wounded warrior, yet it seems as if appropriate treatment has already been rendered." He briefly inspected their handiwork and nodded his approval. He arose to leave them.

"Ada," said Elladan, "you cannot go without saying something to Elrohir. On his own he beat off three Orcs—else I had been dead!"

Elrohir blushed a fiery red and looked down at his feet. Had it been any other Elf, Elrond would have written off his reaction as one of excessive humility, but Elrohir had never been known to suffer from that fault. Elrond would have to inquire into the matter, but for now he had other injured warriors to attend to.

"We will speak of this later, Elladan. I must tend to the wounded." The elf-lord strode off with Mithrandir, who had been observing the exchange with keen interest.

"So your sons did not escape this skirmish altogether unscathed."

"No, and I suspect that Elrohir has suffered an injury more painful than the cut

Elladan received to the shoulder."

"But they will both be the tougher once their injuries heal."

"It is to be hoped so."

The two friends stopped to hear a brief report from Berenmaethor on how his patrol had fared and then headed to a pavilion that had been set up to receive the injured. After they departed, Berenmaethor saw to it that their dead foes were dragged into one large pile and ordered that the injured Orcs be put out of their misery as painlessly as possible.

"Elrohir, Thoron, Anomen, you can leave Elladan be for the moment. Baramagor will watch over him. Wounded Orcs are scattered about this field, and they must be dispatched."

It was a distasteful duty but the young Elves now understood it to be a necessary one. As efficiently as possible, they moved from one Orc to the next, quickly cutting the throats of any that still lived.

Elrohir found himself kneeling beside the Orc whom he had been tormenting only a short time before. The Orc still lived, but the evil in its eyes had been replaced by the bewildered pain of a dumb creature that suffers and does not know why.

Elrohir hesitated, but not because he wished to prolong the creature's dying. No, he suddenly found that he dreaded inflicting more pain that day, even if were upon the most loathsome of creatures. He steeled himself to the task by reminding himself that he was in fact shortening the creature's suffering and easing its death. "I am sorry," he whispered, as with one swift stroke he cut the creature's throat. Then he called for Thoron and Anomen to help him drag the body to the growing pile of Orc carcasses.

Later that evening Berenmaethor ordered Elrohir to deliver a scroll on which he had written the names and status of all the members of his patrol. Elrohir joined a steady stream of young messengers on similar errands to the commanders of the army. When he reached the tent that served as headquarters, he held back, allowing all the other messengers to go before him. When all had delivered their scrolls and returned to their patrols, Elrohir at last stepped up to the entrance of the tent. Inside, Elrond sat alone at his field table, studying the scrolls that had already been delivered. Sensing that someone waited, and without looking up, Elrond said, "Enter."

Elrohir quietly stepped up to the table and placed his scroll upon it.

"Thank you. That will be all," said Elrond, still without looking up.

Elrohir cleared his throat.

"Ah, Elrohir. I did not know it was you. Is there something further that you wish?"

"May I—may I talk with you a minute?"

Elrond studied him intently. "Do you wish to speak with me as your commander or as your father?"

Elrohir's voice trembled a little. "As my—my Ada."

Elrond arose from his seat. "Even though we Imladris Elves call this land Mirkwood, there is still much here that is beautiful. Come. Let us walk a little."

The two left the tent and strolled a short distance, keeping well within the line of sentries but still far enough for privacy.

"What is it you wish to say, ion-nîn?"

"Ada, tomorrow the severely injured will be sent under escort to Thranduil's hall, is that not so?"

"Yes. There they will receive better care than they would in the field—and the escort will be able to return promptly to battle. No warriors will have to be detailed to defend the injured any longer than necessary."

"Ada, I would like to be numbered among the escort, but once I reach the Hall"—here Elrohir hesitated before taking a deep breath and plunging on—"once I reach the Hall I think I should remain there."

Elrond raised both eyebrows. "And have you a reason for asking to be taken out of battle—for this is what you ask, is it not?"

"Yes, Ada, I have a reason. I am not reliable."

"What do you mean by that phrase, 'not reliable'?"

"I mean that my comrades cannot depend upon me. If it had not been for my selfishness, Elladan would never have been injured. I—I was thinking of vengeance and did not notice that Elladan was being assailed by three Orcs with no one near to help him."

Elrohir bowed his head in shame. His father stood for a few minutes in silence before he spoke.

"Elrohir, do you remember when I summoned Anomen to my chamber after he returned from his unfortunate encounter with several large and venomous Mirkwood spiders?"

"Yes, I remember. He was petrified, for he was certain that it would be centuries before you let him go on another patrol."

"Yet I did not make him wait centuries."

"No, you sent him out immediately—because you needed to keep him safely out of the clutches of Thranduil."

"True, but I would have sent him out anyway. He had learned from his experience; there was no reason he should not have rejoined the patrol. That day I told him something that I will now tell you: It would be a shame to waste wisdom so dearly bought."

"What did he say when you told him that?"

"If you must know, he flung his arms around me and called me 'Ada'."

Elrohir sighed wistfully. "I wish I were not too old to do that."

"Oh, and who told you that you were?" The eyebrows were up again, even higher than before, if that were possible.

Elrohir needed no further invitation. He threw his arms around his father and squeezed so hard that, truth be told, tears came to Elrond's eyes.

"Elrohir," he gasped at last. "I believe that you are going to do me an injury if you do not loosen your hold!"

Reluctantly, Elrohir let go of his father and stepped back a pace. "I hope Elladan is an understanding as you are, Ada."

"Ah, so you mean to disillusion him?"

"Yes, Ada. If I don't I will be miserable ten times over as he insists on telling everyone how brave I was."

"I believe he is right about that. Your error had nothing to do with lack of courage. But by all means talk to your brother if you think it will make you feel better. I think he will understand. He misses his Naneth as much as you do, even if he does keep his anger better hidden. Now you had better return to your patrol before Berenmaethor sends out a search party."

"Yes, Ada." Elrohir bowed to his father and hurried back toward his patrol's encampment.

Elrond slowly walked back to the tent, relieved that his sons would heal, body and soul. When he arrived, Mithrandir was there before him. The Istar had already poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Elrond as soon as he entered.

"I took the liberty of making myself comfortable in your absence," said the Istar.

"Yes, I have talked with Elrohir, if that is what you wish to know," said Elrond with a smile.

"Hmm," mused Mithrandir, "I think you are becoming like Galadriel. You answer questions I have not yet asked, an uncanny ability that I am more accustomed to encountering in a Lothlórien Elf rather than in an Imladris one."

"There is nothing uncanny about it, Mithrandir. We have been friends long even by the accounting of Elves. In such a case, it is easy for one friend to anticipate the questions of the other."

"True, true. I take it that the conversation went well."

"Yes. I think that Elrohir has won this battle—although he may still face a skirmish or two."

"It is to be hoped that such a skirmish will not be as painful as the one he fought today."

"The ones," corrected Elrond.

"Yes, of course. The ones he fought today." Mithrandir raised his glass. "Until tomorrow's battle."

"Yes," said Elrond. "Until tomorrow's battle."


	8. Thranduil Redivivus

_Volcanic Plug: _Thank you for the 'volcanic plug'!

_MoroTheWolfGod_: Your question will be answered in this very installment.

_Dragonfly: _Yes, Elrohir has learned a lot.  And Anomen has matured, too, to the point where he can indeed be a 'role model' for an even younger Elf.

_Jebb__: I'm glad you don't find the humor to be out of place._

            Baramagor had suffered no serious injuries in the latest skirmish, but, in spite of the words of the Ranger Halbarad, there was something that did indeed keep him out of the next battle.  Berenmaethor selected him to join the scouts who were escorting the wounded to Thranduil's Hall.

            "Have I done something wrong?" Baramagor worried.

            "No," Anomen reassured him.  "Glorfindel merely wishes to keep the more experienced warriors on the front line.  You'll see: the escort will be made up of the youngest scout from each patrol."

            Anomen was right, and so Baramagor went off simultaneously reluctant and relieved.  After he was gone, Anomen returned to Thoron's side.

            "And so, Anomen, what do you think of my cousin?"

            "I like him very much—but I have never met an Elf with so many scruples!"

            Thoron looked at him oddly.  Anomen wondered why, but before he had a chance to ask, Berenmaethor called to them.

            "Anomen, Thoron, you will be runners today.

            "Both of us?" said Thoron.

            "Yes.  From henceforth, no one is to venture anywhere alone, so the runners must travel in pairs."  He handed Thoron a scroll.

            "Celeborn and Thranduil will be meeting with Elrond, Mithrandir, and Glorfindel at Elrond's tent.  They are considering how best to break this stalemate, and Elrond has asked for complete updates on the disposition of each patrol.  See that this is placed in his hands as quickly as possible."

            The two friends buckled on their sword belts and their quivers and hastened on their way.

            Celeborn was already at Elrond's tent when the two friends arrived with their scroll, and they were delighted to see that Haldir was among the scouts who had accompanied him.  After entrusting the scroll to Glorfindel—who briefly smiled at them!—Thoron and Anomen lingered a few minutes to exchange greetings with their Lothlórien friend.  Haldir looked cheerful, so Anomen did not hesitate to ask after his brothers.

            "How are Rúmil and Orophin faring, Haldir?"

            "They are both well.  Orophin was nicked on the arm by a scimitar, and Rúmil took an arrow in, ah, his seat, but neither injury was particularly serious.  Both remain on the line—although it is a good thing for Rúmil that we do not fight as cavalry!"

"His seat!" exclaimed Thoron.  "Oh, this will make for some merriment later on."

"Yes," laughed Anomen, "we will have to 'ride' him about this injury of his."

"The scouts in our patrol have already worn out that pun," exclaimed Haldir.  "You will have to come up with one of your own!  But tell me, Thoron, how fares your cousin Baramagor?"

"You might say that Baramagor at first 'had no stomach' for battle," said Thoron.

"Ah," said Haldir wisely, "I know what that means."

"Yes, but now his stomach is no longer continually in his mouth!"

All three laughed heartily.

"And Elladan and Elrohir?  Are they well?"

"Elrohir is yet unhurt," replied Anomen.  "Elladan suffered a scimitar wound to the shoulder.  He was supposed to have been evacuated to Thranduil's Hall, but he hid when it came time for the injured to depart.  Since then Berenmaethor has been pretending that Elladan is invisible.  Once he even stumbled over him but looked about and pretended to complain about being tripped up by tree roots."

"You are with Berenmaethor?  Where is Taurmeldir?"

Anomen fell silent.  Thoron bowed his head.

After a few moments, Haldir murmured softly, "I am sorry, my friends."

"Thank you, Haldir," Anomen said, his voice equally soft.

They talked quietly for a few more minutes.  At last Thoron reminded Anomen that they should be returning to their camp.

"Yes," agreed Anomen.  He turned again to Haldir.  "Stay well, Haldir.  Give our greetings to Rúmil and Orophin."

"Yes," added Thoron, rallying his spirits, "and advise Rúmil to watch his backside!"

"I will," nodded Haldir, smiling once more.  Greet Elladan and Elrohir for me, and congratulate Baramagor on his having developed a strong stomach!"

With a final wave at their friend, Thoron and Anomen headed back toward their camp.  At the same time, Thranduil and his escort, were nearing Elrond's tent, and by and by Thoron and Anomen crossed paths with the Mirkwood Elves.  The two Imladris runners stepped aside and bowed respectfully as the royal party passed.

"There is that wretched Rivendell Elf again," Thranduil thought to himself when he spied Anomen.  "Why could not Elrond have left him in Imladris!?  Now my dreams shall be troubled."

Thranduil curtly nodded to acknowledge the bows of the two young Elves.  After the king and his escorts had passed, Anomen and Thoron strode on, but they had scarcely gone a hundred paces when they heard shouts and the sound of metal clanging against metal.

"The king has been ambushed," cried Anomen in a sudden panic.  He drew his sword and made as if to run back, but Thoron seized his arm.

"Let us not rush blindly into this skirmish.  We may do more good with our bows than our swords."

Anomen nodded, and the two of them moved swiftly but carefully toward the sounds of battle until they were near enough to hope to catch sight of the combatants. Each of the two young Elves ascended a different tree.  It was daylight, and they could clearly see both their friends and their foes.  The latter reminded Anomen of the half-goblins he had seen at Isengard and in the forest of Fangorn.  Carefully aiming, he began to methodically pick them off one at a time.  Thoron did likewise.  Within a few minutes, the half-goblins realized that they were under assault from the tree canopy, and a few bowmen detached themselves from the main group and began to shoot up into the branches.

Thoron and Anomen had arrived none too soon.  Thranduil and his escort had been hard put to it to defend themselves against the half-goblins, whose numbers were superior to their own, but with the aid of their hidden reinforcements, they began to make headway against them.  Balance was restored, and then the advantage swung toward the Elves.  At last the half-goblins gave up and retreated.  The enemy bowman took a few last wild shots and fled with the rest.

The skirmish over, Thranduil immediately set about checking on the safety of his escort.  First of all, he looked for Gilglîr.  He spotted him sitting with his back against a tree.  At first glance, he looked oddly relaxed, as if he had taken it into his mind to sit down and rest in the midst of a battle.  At second glance, Thranduil realized that Gilglîr was merely patiently waiting for someone to free him from a carcass that had fallen in his direction, knocking him over and pinning his legs.  As Thranduil approached his friend, Gilglîr said, with exaggerated politeness, "If you would be so kind as to remove this dead weight from my body."

"Ah, the mark of an accomplished seneschal.  No matter the situation, you are able to speak with absolute correctness."

From his seated position, Gilglîr contrived to bow in a manner that looked most elegant.  Laughing, Thranduil hauled the Orc carcass off Gilglîr's legs and reached down his hand to pull his friend to his feet.  Once Thranduil had satisfied himself that Gilglîr was indeed unharmed, the two of them quickly split up, each hastening in a different direction to check on the condition of the other warriors.  Few had been injured, and those that were had suffered only minor wounds.  Everyone seemed to be accounted for.  Thranduil glanced about one last time.  To his horror, he spied a young Elf lying quite still at the base of a tree, an arrow protruding from his chest.  It was the dark-haired one who reminded him of his son.  Thranduil pushed that thought aside and hastened toward the injured Elf, but as he reached him the second Rivendell Elf ran up to him and shoved him back.

"Don't touch him!" shouted the Elf, who looked only a little older than the injured one.  "I'll care for him!"

"I only meant to help," replied Thranduil.  He was momentarily indignant at being treated so, but the feeling quickly subsided as he reminded himself that these Elves were undoubtedly friends.  Thought Thanduil, "I must make allowances.  This distraught young one cares not whether or no I be king; nor should he care."

            "I will not touch your friend if you do not wish me to, but can I assist you in any way?  Can I bring you anything—water, bandages?"

            "Elrond—bring Elrond!" exclaimed the young Elf.  Thranduil nodded and, leaving Gilglîr in charge, he personally hurried off in search of that elf-lord's tent.

            He found Elrond in the company of a Ranger.  Together they were tending to a Lothlórien Elf who had suffered a sword wound to his arm on the previous day.  Urgently Thranduil described the newly-injured Elf to the Lord of Rivendell.

            "A young Elf with dark hair?"

            "Yes, younger than most—I saw him once before when he accompanied Glorfindel and Erestor to Greenwood several months back."

            Elrond sprang to his feet.  "Arathorn, can you finish here?  The wound is clean but needs to be bound."

            The Ranger nodded, and Elrond followed Thranduil back to where the young Rivendell Elf lay.  His friend knelt anxiously beside him.

            "Elrond, Durrandîr has not opened his eyes even once, and he gasps as he breathes!"

            "Fetch Mithrandir, Thoron."

            Thoron sprang to his feet and raced off.

            "They are good friends, those two?"

            "Yes.  Now I must ask you to excuse me, Thranduil.  I must concentrate on his injuries."

            "May I help?"

            "No, that will not be necessary, thank you."

            Elrond seemed anxious for him to be gone.  A trifle mystified, Thranduil turned to leave.  As he did so, he saw Mithrandir hastening toward them.  The wizard looked alarmed, more so than Thranduil had ever seen him.  "Who," Thranduil wondered, "is this young Elf who evokes such concern in both wizard and elf-lord?"

            He was still musing when he returned to Gilglîr.

            "Gilglîr, do you remember that young Elf with dark hair who accompanied the Rivendell delegation?"

            "I remember him only because you mentioned him so often.  He troubled you for some reason, did he not?"

            "Yes, he reminded me—he reminded me—"

            "—of your son," Gilglîr finished.

            Thranduil flinched, but nodded.

            "The warrior shot in the chest over yonder is that selfsame Elf."

            "That is unfortunate.  He is one of the younger ones."

"If not the youngest, then nearly so.  Gilglîr, they call him Durrandîr.  Who is his father?"

            "I have never heard his father mentioned."

            "That is curious, is it not?"

            "Yes, it is customary for one's father to be named."

            "Both Elrond and Mithrandir seemed quite distressed at his having been injured."

            "Of course, Thranduil.  He is a Rivendell Elf, and a young one at that.  Why should they _not_ be distressed."

            "_Quite_ distressed, Gilglîr."

            "What are you driving at, Thranduil?"

            "This Durrandîr has dark hair."

            "Yes?"

            "Elrond has dark hair."

            "Ah," said Gilglîr, "I think I see where this is leading.  Elrond has two acknowledged sons, Elladan and Elrohir.  You suspect that he has a third?"

            "Yes, and is that not ironic?"

            "What do you mean, Thranduil?"

            "I would be grateful if my one lost son were restored to me.  Elrond has sons and to spare.  He does not even care to acknowledge one of them.  If he were _my son, I would acknowledge him.  I would shout his name from the tree tops!"_

            Thranduil had never spoken so openly or at such length of his bitterness.  Gilglîr did not know what to say in reply.  The two sat in silence for a while.  At last Thranduil sighed and arose.

            "I must try not to grudge Elrond his good fortune.  Mayhap it is deserved.  I have heard it said that he is an attentive father.  Even if he has not acknowledged this son—and that may not even have been his choice—he obviously shows his concern for the young one—which is more than I ever did.  In this one matter, whatever my dislike of Elrond, I must concede that the Valar have been just in depriving me of my one son whilst gifting him with many."

            Gilglîr could not let such a statement go unchallenged.  "It is not a matter of deserving or not deserving.  Many have sons who do not deserve them, and many who have no sons _do deserve them.  A son is not a reward that is doled out or taken away by the Valar on account of the deeds of the father."_

            "Nay, I cannot believe you.  How else to explain the death of my son?"

            "Would you make the Valar out to be child-slayers?"

            "Then why did my son die?"

            "I do not know.  You do not know.  But do not curse the Valar, as you would if you believed that they slew Laiqua in order to punish you."

            Thranduil sighed.  "It would give me some consolation if I could blame the Valar.  Mayhap I would spend less time blaming myself."

"Why must you blame anyone?"

This idea, however, was not one that Thranduil was ready to entertain. 


	9. The Least Among Us

Thank you, _elvendancer.  That is quite a compliment._

Yay, another eruption from _Volcanic Plug!  (I'll bet you are sick of that pun.  I'll try to be more original next time.)_

_MoroTheWolfGod_, you are _glad _that Anomen is hurt!  You are glad that Anomen is _hurt_!  Well, yeah, I guess is does add some interest to the story.

_Jebb_, it's sad what Thranduil is going through, but he is _really going to cherish his son when he finally is reunited with him in, oh, about fifty years._

_Farflung_: Ah, Shakespeare.  Here's an appropriate line, I think: "Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive."

Well, _dragonfly_, I guess something like what I said to _Jebb goes for you too.  Thranduil beats himself up thinking he didn't deserve his son, _but_ by doing so he shows that in the end he does indeed deserve him.  And, believe me, he is going to __dote on Legolas once he recovers him._

            "Ada, Ada," whimpered Anomen, his eyes squeezed shut against the throbbing in his chest.

            Anomen thought he heard someone replying, "I am here, îon-nin," but the words were muffled, as if spoken by someone on the other side of a wall.

            "Ada?"

            "Yes, my son."  The voice was clearer now.

            Anomen opened his eyes and found himself staring up into the face of Elrond.  Bewildered, he stammered, "Where—Where— "  He stopped.  Of course.  Elrond was his father now.  How could he have forgotten? 

            Calming himself, Anomen cautiously inquired as to the fate of the King of Northern Mirkwood.

            "Ada, Thranduil was ambushed by half-goblins.  Is he yet alive?"

            "Yes, he escaped unscathed.  You were the only one seriously injured in that skirmish."

            "That is good.  The alliance is yet unbroken."

            Elrond nodded.  "But do not concern yourself about such matters, my son.  You have slept long.  Are you thirsty? hungry?"

            "A little thirsty, yes.  But I am forgetting Thoron!  Is he well?"

            "Yes.  As I said, only you were seriously injured.  Thoron escaped with a few scratches from the branches that whipped him as he slid down a tree in his haste to reach you once he realized that you were injured."

            "Where is he?"

            "Sleeping at last.  I took the liberty of slipping a little something into his wine."

            "Ada!"

            Elrond handed Anomen a goblet filled with water-diluted wine.  Anomen stared at it suspiciously.  Elrond laughed.

            "Anomen, you have just woken up.  I have put nothing in this glass that will make you sleepy."

            Reassured, Anomen sipped a little of the beverage.  As he did so, he discovered that he was hungry, too.

            "Ah, that is a good sign," said Elrond when Anomen asked him if he could have a little something to eat.  "You gave us quite a fright, Anomen, but now you are awake and talking and drinking and eating."

            "And fighting again soon, I hope."

            "No, Anomen, for you this war is over.  It is true that you now seem to be recovering swiftly, but you must not forget that you suffered a chest wound.  I'll wager it still hurts when you breathe deeply."

            "It does throb," Anomen conceded., "but—ow!"

            Anomen had tried to take a deep breath.  Elrond smiled grimly.

            "You see, Anomen, you have proved me right."

            "But, Ada," exclaimed an alarmed Anomen, "you wouldn't have me evacuated with the injured, would you!  You cannot mean to send me to Thranduil's Hall!"

             "Shhh," said Elrond soothingly.  "Of course I would not send you to Thranduil's Hall.  In a few days, when you are a little stronger, I shall send you to the Rohirrim encampment.  Baramagor shall go with you.  He will retrieve his horse, and you will ride with him to Lothlórien.  I shall send a message to the leader of the Rohirrim asking that he provide an escort for you, as there may be Orcs and wargs lurking along the path to Lórien."

            "Very well, Ada," said a much-relieved Anomen.  "But I can ride my own horse.  I do not need to ride with Baramagor."

            "You will ride with Baramagor," said Elrond sternly, raising his eyebrows in a most alarming fashion.

            "Yes, Ada," said Anomen hastily.  "As you wish."

            Elrond relaxed.  "Good.  I am glad that we are agreed.  Ah, here is your friend Thoron.  Up so soon, Thoron?  I must not have dosed you as thoroughly as I thought.  Well, I shall leave Thoron to entertain you.  I must have a word with Mithrandir.  Stay well, my son."

            "Thank you, Ada."

            Elrond left the tent and went in search of Mithrandir.  Along the way he encountered Thranduil.

            "How is the young Elf—Durrandîr—is that not so?" asked Thranduil.

"Yes," replied Elrond carefully, "Durrandîr.  He is much better.  I thank you for your concern."  He changed the subject.  "Have you seen Mithrandir hereabouts?"

"Yes, he is at the tent of the Lord of Lothlórien."

"Thank you."

Elrond strode off quickly, and Thranduil watched him go with eyes narrowed by suspicion and envy.

"I am sure that Durrandîr is something more than the foster-son of Elrond.  Yes, he is something much, much more than that!"

As Thranduil had said, Mithrandir was at the tent of the Lord of Lothlórien.  Celeborn and the Istar were sitting companionably in the sun just outside the door flap.

"Ah, Elrond," Mithrandir greeted him, "how does Anomen?"

"Durrandîr, if you please, when Mirkwood Elves are near."

"Oh, yes, of course.  My apologies.  And?"

"And he is awake, hungry, thirsty, and more talkative than he should be.  At first I was afraid that he might have suffered a head injury that we were not aware of, for when he awoke he did not seem to recognize me.  After a moment's confusion, however, he knew who I was and he seemed quite clear-headed from that point onward."

Mithrandir looked sideways at Elrond but said nothing.  Elrond turned toward the Lord of Lothlórien. 

"Celeborn, in a few days I will send Durrandîr to Lothlórien."

"Do you desire an escort of Galadhrim to accompany him?"

"No, I do not wish to pull more warriors from the battle than absolutely necessary.  He will ride with Baramagor, and I shall ask the Rohirrim to provide an escort."

"Baramagor, not Thoron?"

"Yes, Baramagor is among the least experienced of the warriors and so can be spared most easily.  He has already served once as an escort for the wounded, so this will not be a new duty for him.  Moreover, truth be told, it might be best for Baramagor to be away from the frontline for a few days.  He has only just found the 'stomach' for battle, and I fear that, should he be pushed overly hard, he may lose it yet again.

"It is a terrible thing to have one's stomach in one's mouth, is it not?" mused Celeborn with a straight face.

"Shall we not change the subject," interrupted Mithrandir.  "I have just eaten lunch."

"Why, Mithrandir," exclaimed Elrond, professing to be astonished, "I did not know that _you had a weak stomach."_

"And _I did not know," replied Mithrandir, "that the Lords of Imladris and Lothlórien delighted in exchanging elfling humor.  Next you shall be complimenting me on my dancing, no doubt!"_

"Ah, now you mention it, Mithrandir," said Elrond, a glint in his eyes, "I was admiring your footwork last night.  I have never seen steps executed with such, such _flair_."

"Yes," Celeborn joined in.  "Indeed, Mithrandir, your footwork was so exceptional that at first I took you for a tumbler rather than a dancer."

"If you had had such a partner as I had last night, no doubt _you_ would have done some tumbling yourself.  And do not forget that in the end I handed my partner his head!  Oh, and Elrond," the wizard added, "were you not doing some tumbling yourself last night?  I am certain that I observed you performing flips at one point."

"Yes, well, agility is to be desired in a warrior, is it not?" replied Elrond with mock gravity.

"_Ah, so cartwheeling down a slope until stopped by a tree is now to be accounted _agility_, is that so?" said the Istar._

Their raillery of one another was interrupted by the approach of Thranduil and Glorfindel, for all had agreed to meet after the noon hour for another war council.  Thranduil noted with displeasure that Elrond was relaxed and smiling.

"I must stop this," he scolded himself.  "It is not Elrond's fault that he has sons and to spare, and I shall go mad if I continue to think on it."

Thus resolved, Thranduil nodded politely at Elrond and the others and took his place in the circle.

Celeborn spoke first.  "The forces of Dol Guldur have tried to dislodge us repeatedly and have repeatedly failed.  But we are no nearer victory for that.  We hold the same positions as we did when we first laid siege to the tower."

"True," said Elrond.  "And whilst our losses have been no greater than those of our foes, they can endure numerous casualties better than we can.  Orcs breed prodigiously; Elves do not.  It will be many generations, if ever, before our numbers are restored."

"What are you saying?" demanded Thranduil.  "Do you propose abandoning the siege and leaving the Greenwood Elves—_my people—to face the wrath and vengeance of a power that you advised me to stir up by this assault on Dol Guldur?"_

"We advise no such thing," said Mithrandir.  "The tower cannot be taken by outright assault; nor will it fall to siege without the loss of many Elven lives.  But there is another way.  There is a secret way, a dark way, that leads into the tower.  I myself have used it to penetrate that tower in days past.  The passageway is difficult to negotiate, but it can be done by such as assay it with a steadfast spirit.  We must make as if to launch an all-out assault upon Dol Guldur, but not in the vicinity of the opening to the secret corridor.  Let the attack focus on the side of the tower furthest from that place.   Whilst our enemy preoccupied by the attack, I shall lead a small force into Dol Guldor.  It is from within that the tower must be taken."

Glorfindel concurred.  "We need to adopt such a stratagem, for we will never defeat the enemy through strength of arms alone."

Thranduil had to grudgingly concede that such tactics might be the only way to prevail.

"Very well.  But we must do it properly.  Our biggest and strongest warriors must be sent on this mission."

"I do not think so," said Elrond.  "This quest may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong.  We must place our trust in secrecy, and even the mightiest Elves of the Elder days would not avail us in this case."

"I agree," said Mithrandir.  "Even if we were to choose for this task an elf-lord such as Glorfindel, we would gain nothing thereby.  The small have as much chance of success in this as the great.  Nay, the small will have an advantage over the great in the place through which I plan to lead our warriors.  Indeed, it is a pity that we do not have a Dwarf on hand.  Or," he added thoughtfully, "a Halfling or two."

"But," he went on briskly, ignoring Thranduil's snorted 'hmph', "we have neither Dwarf nor Halfling, so we must select such small and agile Elves as seem good to us.  As for myself, I wish I were a little shorter, but I will dispense with cloak and hat and make my way as best I can through the narrow passageway.  I have done it before.  But do not expect me to be a model of gracefulness for the Elves who will follow in my wake!"

"Thoron," suggested Glorfindel.  "Thoron would be an excellent choice."

"And my sons Elladan and Elrohir," said Elrond.

"_Both your sons, Elrond?" asked Mithrandir.  "Are you sure you wish to venture both?"_

"One will hardly remain behind if the other goes forth.  And if this mission should fail, then I might as well have ventured both sons as one, for I deem that the power in Dol Guldur will be fully unleashed once it is revealed that we were desperate enough to trust our fate to this throw."

"Haldir will go forth for Lothlórien," offered Celeborn.

"Which means," said Mithrandir dryly, "Rúmil and Orophin as well, unless you would like Elrond here to drug them for the duration."

Thranduil well nigh ground his teeth.  He had no son to send, and he knew not the names of the younger Elves under his command, for he had made a point of ignoring them, surrounding himself only with full-grown Elves who did not remind him of his son.  He spoke reluctantly.

"I will ask Gilglîr his opinion as to which of the Greenwood Elves it would be best to send."

"Of course, Thranduil," said Elrond.  "We should have had Gilglîr to this council.  My apologies."

 Thranduil nodded curtly and arose.  "It is decided then.  A small force of Elves, likewise small, shall follow Mithrandir into the hidden way that leads into Dol Guldur.  May the Valar protect them in their quest."

All arose and joined him in that prayer.  Their future would, it seemed, hinge upon those who would have been pitiful and trifling in the eyes of the lord of Dol Guldur.


	10. A Deadly Race

_Jebb_ and _dragonfly: _Yes, I am laying the groundwork to make Anomen and Thranduil's reconciliation believable.  Anomen simply can't be angry and resentful for 500 years and then suddenly turn into an adoring son.

_Dragonfly _and _Volcanic Plug:  It would indeed be kind of neat if Anomen went on the mission with Mithrandir, but as you will see in this installment, I have something else in mind for him, which I hope will meet your approval even if it wasn't what you expected._

_Volcanic Plug_: It may be that I didn't get many reviews for "The Nameless One" because I posted the whole thing all at once instead of posting installments.  The finished story just sort of appeared on fanfiction one day, and I think maybe people figured there wasn't much sense in reviewing at that point.  People seem to like to get in on the dialogue as a story is being created.  Anyway, my ego was a little bruised when it looked as if the story was being completely ignored, but I have recovered, and people are more than making up for the lack of early reviews!

_MoroTheWolfGod__: Here you are!_

Vocabulary

Noro lim—'Ride swiftly'

Saes—'Please'

            Glumly Thoron and the twins sat with Baramagor and Anomen on the day before the latter two were to set out for Lothlórien.

            "Anomen," said Elladon, "surely you can disguise yourself and slip in amongst us.  I managed to evade the Elves who were escorting the wounded to Thranduil's Hall.  If I could do that, you, who are the master of absconding, can surely do something similar."

            Anomen shook his head.  "I do not think so, Elladan.  You were one among many, and Berenmaethor was willing to look the other way when you reappeared amongst the patrol.  But the name and number of all who are to accompany Mithrandir are known to an exactitude.  And Mithrandir would recognize me, no matter what disguise I adopted.  Elves in Mirkwood had not seen me since I was an elfling; nor did they expect to see me.  It was not too difficult to deceive them, especially as I was careful not to come too near to any of them.  But Mithrandir has watched me grow from elfling to Elf.  He knows my voice, my expressions, my mannerisms—he would not be fooled if I were to try to attach myself to his band of Elves."

            "But," argued Thoron, "mayhap Mithrandir would ignore your presence, as Berenmaethor ignored Elladan's.  Remember that it was Mithrandir who knew that you would disguise yourself and slip of the first time—and he did nothing to stop you.  Indeed, it was Mithrandir who persuaded Elrond to command Glorfindel to allow you to rejoin the patrol."

            Again Anomen shook his head.  "No, Mithrandir and Elrond have both told me outright that this time there is to be no running away.  If I were to show up, Mithrandir would send me straight back to Elrond."

            "Anomen is right," declared Elrohir unexpectedly.  "Mithrandir and Elrond have decided that it would be best for Anomen to go to Lothlórien.  If they thought that his injury would permit him to aid us in this mission, then they would have allowed him to take part in it.  It is not for us to try to skirt their commands just because it would please us to do so.  We must remember that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few!"

            Having delivered these words of wisdom, Elrohir folded his arms and looked loftily at his comrades.

            "Elrohir," growled Elladan, "I think you were more fun before you became so, so—_responsible about everything."_

            "Well," replied Elrohir, "I _must be responsible because I am the older twin."_

            "You are not!"

            "Yes, I am."

            "No, you're not!"

            "Yes, I am!"

            "No, you're—"

            Interrupted Anomen.  "This is _such _an impressive display of maturity on the part of _both of you."_

            The twins looked embarrassed.

            "_Do you know which of you is the older?" asked Baramagor._

            "No," the twins chorused.  They looked at each other and grinned.

            "Ada," explained Elladan, "refuses to say which of us was born first."

            "Yes," added Elrohir.  "He says that in any event we were born 'joined at the hip', so it does not matter."

            A figure approached the group just then.  It was Elrond.

            "Anomen and Baramagor are leaving on a journey tomorrow morning.  They should be resting.  And you," he said, turning to Thoron and the twins, "are leaving on a mission the day after that.  You also should be resting.  You may say your farewells now."

            Reluctantly, the young Elves arose and wished each other well.  As they parted, Elladan whispered to Anomen, "I still think you should give it a try.  What have you got to lose?"

            Replied Anomen softly, "Ada's respect."

            Elladan considered for a moment and then nodded.  "You are right, Anomen.  That is not something I would want to risk either."

            The next morning Baramagor and Anomen set out before dawn, with an escort of several older Elves, on the march back to the Rohirrim encampment.  Glorfindel was arising at the same time that they were departing.  After he breakfasted, he went to Elrond's tent.

            "Elrond, when Baramagor and Anomen reach the Rohirrim encampment, I would like them to take my horse.  It is larger, stronger, and faster than Baramagor's steed, and I would feel much more confident knowing that, in case of danger, they would be so well mounted.  Will you tell them that before they depart?"

            "I am sorry, Glorfindel.  They left before dawn."

            "So early?"

            "I wanted them to journey as much as possible in the cool of the day.  It will be less wearying for Anomen.  Would you like me to send a runner after them to give them your message?  If he hurries, he could no doubt catch up with them, for they will not be marching very quickly."

            Before Glorfindel had a chance to accept Elrond's offer, cries broke out from the camp's perimeter.  They were under attack once again.  Elrond and Glorfindel both hastened to oversee the defenses, and there was no more thought of sending a messenger in pursuit of Baramagor and Anomen.

            When Baramagor and Anomen arrived at the Rohirrim encampment, Anomen at first tried to convince his friend that he ought to be allowed to ride his own horse.  He had succeeded in convincing himself that his Ada would not mind if he did so.

            "No," said Baramagor firmly.  "Lord Elrond specifically ordered that you were to ride with me, and he told me that I was not to let you sway me into breaking that order."

            "But if he were here and saw how well I had endured the march, he would no doubt change his mind."

            "No, Anomen.  You are not going to get me to give way."

            Anomen cast about for another argument.  "Elrond and Glorfindel have both told me that, when circumstances change and the commander is not on hand to issue new orders, then the warriors themselves may adopt new tactics."

            "You know very well that that rule applies only in extraordinary circumstances, and your desire to ride unaided does not fall into such a category."

            No matter how hard or cleverly Anomen badgered Baramagor, the younger Elf remained steadfast.  At last Anomen sighed and gave up.

            "Very well, Baramagor, if you _must_ be so stubborn.  But I insist that I ride behind you instead of in front.  I am not a little elfling who must ride before so that he can be held onto!  I am perfectly capable of maintaining my grip without any assistance."

            Baramagor's orders did not extend to the question of _where Anomen was to be seated on his mount, so he let Anomen have his way in this._

            They set out on a fine morning escorted by a score of Rohirrim.  The first day passed without incident as they rode at a leisurely pace under a bright sun.  Only on the second day, when they were well out of reach of any aid from their comrades, did the trouble begin.  They heard howls coming from behind them.  Looking back, they saw that wargs had been hidden in the tall grass to either side as they had passed.  Now the beasts had emerged and fanned out, blocking any hope of returning to the Rohirrim encampment.  They must either beat off the creatures or try to outrun them.   And Lothlórien was still many leagues away.

            The captain rode up to Baramagor.  "You two hasten as quickly as you can toward Lothlórien.  We will hold these wargs back and then come after you if at all possible."

            Baramagor urged his horse into a gallop as they tried to cover as much distance as they could before the sun fell and made travel more difficult.  From time to time they looked back over their shoulders but they sign no sign of either wargs or Rohirrim.  When dusk fell they knew they would have to decide whether to pause where they were or continue on their way.

            As it happened, come sundown they never had to make that decision.  Wargs had materialized once the escort had been too far from the encampment to receive aid; so too more wargs came skulking out of the high grass when the two young Elves were at their most vulnerable.

            "Anomen," gasped Baramagor, "we have no choice!  We must ride through the night and hope that our horse does not stumble."

            "Aye, but let me string my bow.  We cannot make a stand against so many wargs, but I will try to bring down any that draw near."

            And so the deadly race began, Elven horse against at least two score wargs.  At least there was a full moon that night, a blessing both to the horse and to Anomen, who went through all the arrows in his quiver as he methodically picked off warg after warg.  He then exhausted Baramagor's supply of arrows.  Only two wargs then remained, but they seemed indefatigable, while the horse was starting to tire under its double burden.  Soon the wargs were snarling and snapping at the heels of the mount, who was beginning to stumble, partly out of fear and partly out of exhaustion.  Baramagor and Anomen knew that it would not be long now.  Both were riding with drawn swords.  Suddenly, Baramagor shouted "Noro lim" to his horse, swung a leg up and over the neck of the stallion, and leaped down onto the grass.  "Noro lim!" he shouted after his departing steed, and he turned to confront the two snarling wargs.   

            Desperately Anomen tried to persuade the horse to stop but the steed seemed all too faithful to Baramagor's last words.

            "He will die!" cried Anomen.  "Baramagor will die unless you turn back!  Saes!  Saes!  You must turn back!"

            The horse slowed and came to a halt, shying nervously from side to side.  At last the stallion made up his mind.  He wheeled about and galloped back toward Baramagor as if he were a horse possessed by the spirit of the Mearas of ancient times.  The sound of his hooves upon the plain was like the drum roll of a mighty army marching to defend its people.

            Horse and rider breasted a rise to see a lone Elf being circled by two slavering wargs.  His sword held out before him, Baramagor was twisting about, trying to keep any one of the beasts from getting behind him.  The wargs for their part would take turns feinting a charge and then back off, instinctively aware that it was only a matter of time before their combined efforts would wear down their prey.  As their victim faltered, they would strike and savage this small being who stood so futilely against them.

            So intent were they upon their intended dinner, that they paid no heed to the raging stallion until it o'ertopped them, striking both to the ground with the force of its onslaught.  Anomen had leaped to the ground just before the collision between horse and wargs.  As one of the wargs attempted to arise from the ground, Anomen gutted it.  Baramagor sprang forward and rammed his sword down the throat of the other.

            The two Elves and their horse stood silently for awhile, their chests heaving, their breathing shuddery.  At last Anomen and Baramagor looked about.  In the distance they saw a forest, but it was not, they realized, the forest of Lórien.  The wargs had been driving them south as they had pursued them.  Anomen felt a chill pass over his spine.

            "Yonder," he said to Baramagor, "yonder is Fangorn Forest."


	11. Epiphany

Vocabulary

Tawarmaenas—'Forest Craft'

            Thoron waited patiently with Elladan and Elrohir for their Lothlórien friends to arrive at Mithrandir's tent.  Elladan absent-mindedly rubbed his shoulder.

"Does it still pain you, Elladan?" asked Elrohir anxiously.

"No, it is merely stiff at times.  Fortunately it was not my sword arm that was wounded."

Relieved, Elrohir nodded.  Even though Elladan had freely forgiven him, he still felt a little guilty.

"Ah, here they come at last," exclaimed Thoron, as Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin drew near.

They immediately fell into the old pattern of baiting each other in a light-hearted fashion.

"_We had to prepare dinner both for ourselves and Mithrandir," declared Thoron.  "That means _you_ have to clean up."_

"But," protested Orophin, "we ate with our own patrol and had to clean up after _them_."

"Yes," agreed Rúmil, "and we are tired after all that scouring."

"Oh, so you are tired, Rúmil," grinned Elrohir.  "Then by all means take a _seat."_

"Yes," said Elladan, "we want you to have the best _seat _in the house."

"Say, Rúmil," added Thoron, "we hear that you are going to be assigned to the _rear_ guard."

Rúmil replied loftily with a look of utmost dignity.  "You Rivendell Elves are not very original.  The Lothlórien Elves have already worn out each of those puns.  As well as many others," he added hastily, "so I would give up if I were you."

"Oh, so you want us to put the matter _behind_ us."

"But shouldn't we get to the _bottom of the matter before we put it __behind us."_

 "Yes, if we do not get to the _bottom of the matter, we will be the __butt of many jokes."_

"Yes, even if we are at the _butt end of the matter, even if our efforts are _posterior_ to those of the Lothlórien Elves, I am sure that we will explore the downside—"_

"and the upside—

"and the _backside of this issue more thoroughly than—"_

Someone cleared his throat, and the young Elves jumped.

"Well, well," said Mithrandir, "I am glad that you value thoroughness in all that you do.  But if you would put aside your, ah, demonstration of your skill with synonyms, I would like you to meet a Greenwood Elf who will be accompanying us."

Mithrandir drew forward a small Elf with green eyes and hair the color of a chestnut.  "This is Tawarmaenas.  Tawarmaenas, these two twins are Elladan and Elrohir.  This one is Thoron.  And these three are Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin.  I will leave you now to get acquainted."  With that the wizard went into his tent and closed the door flap.

"Welcome, Tawarmaenas," said Haldir.

"And _you are welcome to Greenwood," said Tawarmaenas pointedly._

"Yes, well, I meant welcome to this clearing."

"Which is of course a part of Greenwood," rejoined Tawarmaenas.

"Oh, to be sure," said Haldir, nonplussed.  "Um, have you eaten?  We have not yet put away the supper dishes."

"I ate a _good meal before setting out with Mithrandir."_

"Oh."

The Lothlórien and Rivendell Elves stood clustered together facing the lone Greenwood Elf.  For a long while—at least it seemed like a long while—no one spoke.  At last Elladan broke the silence.

"Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin arrived just before you did.  They have not yet laid out their bed rolls.  No doubt they will want to do so now.  You are welcome to join them in choosing a place to sleep."

"Oh, _thank you.  How _very_ kind of you to allow me to choose a place to sleep."_

Another long silence.

"Um, Thoron," Elladan said at last, "don't you think you and I and Elrohir should go to the creek and scour the dishes?  That way we'll be out of the way of the others as they lay out their bed rolls."

"Yes," agreed Thoron eagerly.  "I think that is an excellent idea."

The three Rivendell Elves hastily retreated from the clearing, leaving the Greenwood Elf and the Lothlórien Elves to eye each other warily.

Thoron was spluttering by the time they reached the creek.  "Who _is_ this Elf?  He is haughtier than a Dwarf!  Is he a prince of Greenwood?"

"No," declared Elrohir.  "He cannot be kin to Thranduil.  He looks nothing like him."

"You are right," agreed Elladan.  "By the Valar, _Durrandîr looks more like Thranduil than _this_ Elf does!  Why, were Durrandîr's hair not dyed, he could pass for Thranduil's son."_

"True," conceded Thoron, "but I still think this Greenwood Elf could be kin to Thranduil.  Consider this: Durrandîr is nothing like Thranduil in personality, whilst Tawarmaenas is an exact copy of Thranduil in his speech and bearing.  From the point of view of behavior, you two are less alike than Thranduil and Tawarmaenas are, and you are twins!  So, if you consider character alone, it would be hard to imagine Durrandîr as kin to Thranduil, but it would be easy to imagine Tawarmaenas as such."

Elladan and Elrohir could not deny that Thoron had hit upon a good argument.

"But," continued Thoron, "I care not whether he be the king's son himself!  The next time he speaks to us in such a conceited fashion, I will teach him the price of arrogance!"

Elrohir shook his head vigorously.  "No, Thoron.  It is true that this Elf seems overbearing, but we must put aside our feelings and work with him no matter how insulting his manner.  We must not let our passions distract us from our goal."

Thoron and Elladan looked at Elrohir with both surprise and respect.  Increasingly he was the thoughtful one, the one who served as the voice of reason, a role that had hitherto been Elladan's.

Later that night, however, that same thoughtfulness was plaguing Elrohir.  As he lay in his bedroll, listening to the quiet breathing of his friends, he kept hearing something that Elladan had offhandedly said: "…were Durrandîr's hair not dyed, he could pass for Thranduil's son."

"Yes," he thought to himself, "Anomen _could_ pass for Thranduil's son."

Tossing and turning, he mulled over this for awhile.  At last he could stand it no longer.  He carefully raised himself on one elbow and poked at his brother.

"Mmph."

"Elladan, wake up," whispered Elrohir, poking his brother a little harder.

"This had better be important," groaned Elladan.

"Shh, don't be so noisy."

"What is the matter?" said Elladan sarcastically.  "Are you afraid I'll wake someone up?  Dear brother, you are _so_ considerate."

"I have something very important to ask you.  Did anyone ever find the body of the Prince of Greenwood?"

"Who?"

"Thranduil's son, who would have been the Prince of Greenwood."

"Wasn't he dragged off by spiders and never seen again?"

"That's what I'm asking _you," said Elrohir, exasperated._

"Well, yes, I believe that's how the story goes: trapped in a spider web, lost without a trace."

"But no one knows that for certain.  He could be alive.  Maybe that's why his body was never found."

"Um, Elrohir, I understand that, once a Mirkwood spider is done with you, there isn't much left."

"But that's just it.  There's no proof he died in a Mirkwood web.  There could be no trace of him left because a spider got hold of him.  Or there could be no trace of him because he is still alive."

"Elrohir, people who are alive generally do leave traces.  That's how we know that they _are_ alive."

"But what if he didn't _want_ to leave any traces.  What if he ran away and changed his name.  What if he found a new family?"

"What if he did, Elrohir?  What is it to us?  I do not understand why you waked me up to pose these hypothetical questions.  Couldn't it have waited until morning?"

"Elladan, do you remember what happened the year the Prince of Greenwood was lost."

"Elrohir, that was _centuries_ ago!"

"The year that the Prince vanished was the year that Mithrandir brought Anomen to Rivendell."

Aghast, his mouth open, Elladan gaped at Elrohir.  After a few moments he recovered the power of speech.  "And I said Anomen looks like Thranduil," he whispered.

Elrohir nodded.

"Do you think Ada knows?" asked Elladan.

"Ada has met Thranduil many times over the centuries.  He knows even better than we what he looks like.  And I do not see how it could have escaped his notice that Anomen appeared when the prince disappeared."

"True," said Elladan.  "And everyone knows that Anomen came from Greenwood.  He couldn't have hidden that fact if he wanted to, for he arrived in Rivendell dressed in the garb of Thranduil's kingdom."

"Well," said Elrohir, "this explains why Anomen has always carried himself like a prince.  Remember how we used to tease him about his regal speech and behavior?"

"And it explains why he has never told anyone the name of his father.  And also why his own name is so unusual.  It was not the name given to him by his parents.  What name _was he given?"_

"He would have had a Quenya name and a Sindarin one.  I believe Erestor said the Sindarin name was 'Legolas'."

"Shall we say anything to Ada?"

"In the middle of a war?  I think not!  Indeed, we must keep very quiet about this, especially around any Mirkwood Elf."

"Such as Tawarmaenas."

"Oh, yes, certainly around Tawarmaenas.  It would be very bad indeed if word got out that the Prince of Greenwood had run away and been given sanctuary by the Lord of Imladris."

"At least," Elladan pointed out, "we can stop taking such care to say Durrandîr instead of Anomen when we are around the Mirkwood Elves.  They were never looking for an Anomen in the first place."

"But," Elladan added hopefully, "maybe that will be the only thing that changes.  Ada has let Anomen stay with us all these centuries without sending word to Thranduil.  Surely he won't send word now!  Besides, maybe Thranduil won't want Anomen back.  After all, he's done without him for years and seems to be getting along all right."

"I don't know," said Elrohir doubtfully.  "Whatever Thranduil's personal feelings, Anomen is the heir to the throne of Greenwood, and I don't think kings take kindly to having their heirs spirited away.  Trouble will come of this in the end, I fear."

"But Ada didn't spirit him away," protested Elladan.

"I didn't say that he did.  But Ada did keep him hidden from Thranduil."

Just then someone stepped in front of the fire, casting a shadow upon the two whispering Elves.  They fell silent and let their eyes glaze over in imitation of sleep.  Mithrandir was not fooled, but he was satisfied at having brought their conversation to an end.


	12. The Trees of Fangorn

_Farflung__, Miruvour, and _Raven Nightstrider:  _Thank you all for your responses to "The Nameless One."  __Raven Nightstrider, it is a great compliment for me to have the relationship between Thranduil and Legolas compared with that of Denethor and Faramir and Henry VIII and Mary Tudor!  __Farflung_:_ That __French Kiss quotation hits the nail on the head: "Of course, you love your mother, even people who hate their mothers love their mothers."  Of course Legolas loves his father—as Thranduil does him._

_Kawaii__ ningen kitsune: Thank you for letting me know that you are enjoying this current story as well as the fact that you also read "Saruman Redivivus".  A digital smile is wending its way to you via the magic of optical cable.  ^_^   Yes, I think I will keep writing._

_Lembas7: _Thank you for your response to both "Dol Guldur" and "The Nameless One" series overall.  I am glad that you didn't find the Thranduil/Legolas relationship to be the usual predictable one.  Could you give me a little more feedback on that battle scene (I wasn't sure which one you meant) and I will see if I can revise it to eliminate the flow problem.

_Jebb__: There won't be much humor in this one, I'm afraid, but hang on—more is on the way._

_Dragonfly:_ Your question about whether Elrond knows the truth about Anomen will be answered in the final chapter of the Dol Guldur portion of "The Nameless One" series, which is coming up pretty quickly.

_Volcanic Plug: _I have a hunch you must have something to do with the sudden surge of interest in the earlier stories.  Thank you for taking the trouble to encourage people to go back and take a look at them.

Vocabulary

Thalioncrist—'Dauntless Sword'

Baramagor and Anomen stood gazing at the distant forest.   Baramagor was the first to speak.

"It is not Lothlórien, but it is a forest nonetheless.  Let us shelter in it, for dawn is still several hours away."

"No!" shouted Anomen with a vehemence that shocked his friend.

"But, Anomen, it would be safer than remaining on the plain."

"No," Anomen said again.

"Are there spiders in that forest?"

"No."

"Then I do not understand.  Why should we not take refuge in the trees?"

"That is Fangorn Forest."

"I know that, but what of it?"

"I do not want to encounter—there is someone—I cannot explain."

"At that moment the Elves heard the howling of wolves.

Weakly, Anomen tried to joke.  "They are wolves, not wargs.  Our fortunes are improving."

Baramagor was not amused.  "Anomen," he argued, "you cannot give voice to your reasons for avoiding that forest, but the wolves are not so reticent.  They are voicing _their_ intentions."

Miserably, Anomen nodded.  They mounted their horse and galloped toward the forest.  As they drew nearer, Anomen's dread increased, but he could not pinpoint any valid reason for his fear.  He had not fared badly in this forest.  His first time in these woods, he had been taken in hand by an Ent who had delivered him to Saruman, who had been a gracious host.  His second journey he had encountered wargs but had escaped unscathed, and the Istar had once again been a gracious host.  His third stay he had been nursed back to health by the wizard.  What did he fear?

They dismounted several yards into the forest.  They did not think to picket or hobble the horse, for it was elven, and such horses brook no restraints.  Nor do they need them.  But this night something strange was afoot, for Baramagor and Anomen had no sooner set their feet upon the ground than the horse whinnied, tossed his head, and galloped back the way they had come.

Aghast, the two Elves stared after the retreating stallion until it had vanished into the darkness.  Anomen was the first to recover his wits.

"Something must have frightened him!  Quick!  Into the trees!"

Safe on a limb high above the ground, the two watched and listened breathlessly.  At first they could hear the hoofbeats of their fleeing horse.  When those had faded away, they heard nothing.  Nor did they see any movement.  The hours passed.  It was cold in the forest at night.  Baramagor began to shiver.

"Anomen, we have heard and seen nothing.  Perhaps we should climb down and build a fire to fend off the cold."

"Someone or something might see the fire and be drawn to it.  You don't want those wolves to find us, do you?"

            "But, Anomen, would not a fire keep wolves at bay?  Are not wolves afraid of flames?"

"Most wolves, yes, but fell wolves would be drawn with delight at the thought of their dinner toasting by a fire!"

            The younger Elf shuddered from fear now as well as cold.  "Oh, do not speak so, Anomen!" he pleaded.

            Anomen felt sorry for his words.  "Come," he said kindly.  "You are right.  A fire will do no harm.  If anything does approach, we can scramble back up into the trees."

The two young Elves climbed down from the tree and set about gathering deadwood for a fire.  Although their horse had run off with their saddlebags, leaving them without food, Baramagor had his flint and steel in the pouch that dangled from his belt.  Before too long he had a fire going, although Anomen insisted that it be kept small.  Still, as they huddled over the tiny blaze, the two began to feel a little warmer.  After awhile Baramagor stopped shivering and began to look about.  Suddenly he gasped.  Without making the slightest bit of noise, someone had crept up on them.  Just on the edge of the firelight stood an old bent man, leaning on a staff and wrapped in a great cloak; his wide-brimmed hat was pulled down over his eyes.

Baramagor opened his mouth to speak, but Anomen seized his arm.  "Do not speak to him," he hissed.

"But, Anomen, he is an old Man.  We must be hospitable and invite him to share our fire."  He shook off Anomen's hand and leaped to his feet.  "Well, father, what can we do for you?  Come and be warm, if you are cold!"

The old Man stepped into the firelight and spoke. 

            "Well, well, Anomen, I see that you have brought a friend with you this time."

            Baramagor looked at Anomen with astonishment.  "You know this Man?"

            "Oh," the Man said, "we are old friends.  Indeed, I have been as a father to Anomen, is that not so?"

            Reluctantly, Anomen nodded.

            "And are you not going to introduce me to your friend, Anomen?  You were ever the polite elfling—have you forgotten your manners?"

            Anomen forced himself to speak.  "My Lord Saruman, pray permit me to present to you this Elf of Imladris, Baramagor, son of Thalioncrist.

            Saruman looked amused.  "So formal, as ever," he murmured softly.

            For his part, Baramagor was well-nigh wriggling in his joy.  "The Istar of Isengard!" he exclaimed. "Oh, this is a fortunate meeting indeed!  We have found an ally!"

            "You have been found," corrected Saruman.

            "Oh, yes, of course, my Lord."

            "Are you hungry?  Thirsty?"  The wizard gestured toward the pouch that he wore at his waist.  "I carry some food in my wallet, for I had planned to spend the day in the forest."

            "We are very hungry!" Baramagor replied eagerly.

            "No, we're not hungry at all," shouted Anomen.

            Baramagor stared at him.

            "What I mean," said Anomen carefully, "is that we could not possibly partake of your small stock of food.  You are our elder and should not have to go hungry on our behalf.  We are young and ought to be able to endure a short fast in deference to you, Lord Saruman."

            "Oh," said Baramagor, embarrassed, "I did not mean to be disrespectful."

            Before Saruman had a chance to reassure Baramagor, Anomen said quickly, "Yes, Lord Elrond would be _furious if we were to behave in such an uncouth fashion as to gobble up an elder's food, a Lord, no less!  We do not wish to shame Lord Elrond, do we, Baramagor?"_

            "Oh, no!" said Baramagor, horrified at the thought of disgracing the Lord of Imladris.

            "So," thought Saruman, "Anomen can manipulate this younger Elf with ease.  Hmm, perhaps I should not give up my plan of seducing an Elf into my service, but Baramagor rather than Anomen.  For if Anomen can control Baramagor, then _I_ should be able to do so with ease."

            Aloud he said, "Very well.  I would not wish to urge you to do anything against your conscience.  Instead, let us return with all haste to Isengard, where I have more than enough food to counter any scruples you might feel at accepting my hospitality."

            "Oh, no, we couldn't," said Anomen desperately.  "We were on a mission to Lothlórien when we were forced astray by wargs.  We must make for Lothlórien with all the speed that we can muster."

            "But you have no horses," Saruman pointed out.

            "All the more reason for hastening on, for we shall have to make good time on foot to make up for that fact that we are have been unhorsed."

            "But if you accompany me to Isengard, it shall be within my power to provide you with mounts.  A short walk will allow you to continue on horseback, a circumstance that will more than make up for a brief stay in Orthanc." 

            Anomen flailed about for another reason to avoid Isengard.  "Um, I have heard it said that 'Short cuts make long delays'."

            Saruman laughed mirthlessly.  "Ah," said the wizard, "I can assure you that this 'short cut' will not be as you expect.  Come."

            Saruman strode away from the fire, and Baramagor trailed after him obediently.  Anomen had no choice but to kick dirt over the fire and to follow likewise.

            As they walked, the wizard meditated on how best to make use of this unexpected opportunity.  "I shall have to do away with Anomen," the Istar thought to himself, "but in such a fashion that I do not reveal myself to Baramagor.  A convenient fall from the top of Orthanc whilst star gazing—yes, that should do nicely.  And then Baramagor will turn to me for comfort in his grief.  I had looked forward to inflicting a long torment upon Anomen, but I shall have to forgo my plan for the sake of speedily ensnaring Baramagor."

            "Of course," the wizard mused on, "I _could_ make it look as if Anomen had fallen prey to a ravening beast in the forest of Fangorn, leaving behind only a few bloodied garments.  Then I would have Anomen secretly cast into a dungeon, where I could entertain myself at leisure.  Hmm, a trifle more difficult to arrange than a fall from the tower, but it would be infinitely more satisfying than having only the space of a few minutes in which to enjoy Anomen's terror as he plunges toward the base of Orthanc."

             The wizard walked on, amusing himself with devising scenarios for the destruction—preferably painful—of Anomen.  Meanwhile his intended victim was wracking his brains for a means of escape.  Anomen realized that it had been foolish of him to let slip that Lothlórien, not Fangorn, had been their destination.  Saruman would have deduced that no one would know of their whereabouts.  Anomen thus had no hope of convincing the Istar that someone would eventually arrive at Isengard in search of them.  The wizard now had no motive to let them go.  Could they slip out a window and climb down the tower?  Unlike a tree, the tower had walls that were very smooth, providing no handholds or footholds.  And no windows were near enough the base of the tower for them to escape by knotting together bed linen into a rope.  Moreover, how was he even to convince Baramagor that it was necessary to flee their host?  What had Saruman ever done to justify Anomen's fear of him?

            With every step he took, Anomen's terror grew.  The trees about him sensed his dread and began to whisper one to another.  Moreover, distant trees sent word that someone or something had arrived at the edge of the forest, someone or something that would aid the two young Elves if only they could be prevented from reaching Isengard.  At length the trees agreed upon a plan.  As Anomen walked, heedless of his surroundings, a tree snaked out a root, wrapped it around his ankle, and gave a hard yank.

            "Ow!" Anomen cried in pain as he fell upon the ankle, twisting it.  Almost immediately, the joint began to swell.  Anomen was forced to pull off his boot at once, lest it become impossible later.

            Saruman turned about and stood over Anomen, with an effort hiding his irritation.  Baramagor knelt by his friend's side.

            "You can lean on my shoulder, Anomen," the younger Elf offered stoutly.  He helped his friend to his feet, and with his aid Anomen slowly hobbled forward.

            Saruman sighed to himself.  Their progress toward Isengard had been slowed, but he would have them there in the end.  It was necessary to be patient.  Aloud, he encouraged the two young Elves to persevere.  "When we have arrived at Isengard, you, Baramagor will be able to rest, and you, Anomen, will be taken care of, I can assure you."

But the trees had other ideas.  It seemed as if every step he took, Baramagor would trip over a root whose distance he had misjudged.  Anomen almost fell several times as Baramagor strove to maintain his balance.  Saruman glanced back over his shoulder from time to time, his frustration growing.  At last Baramagor lost his balance altogether and toppled to the ground, bringing Anomen down as well.  Bruised and breathless, the two Elves sat looking up at the wizard.

Saruman sighed aloud.  "Well, Baramagor, I do not think that you can support Anomen all the way to Isengard."  To himself, he said grimly, "And _I_ am not going to carry the wretched Elf!"

He continued.  "Since you can walk, Baramagor, you and I should go on ahead and see that a horse is sent back for Anomen."  It occurred to him as he said this that here was a perfect opportunity for him to do away with his ungrateful guest.  He would send his servants to Anomen—to slay him.  The horse would be used to carry his carcass back to Isengard, where, with due lamentations, Saruman would see to it that he was buried with the greatest of respect.  He would then have Baramagor, vulnerable in his grief, completely at his mercy.

But Baramagor could not be persuaded to leave his friend.  "Lord Saruman," he exclaimed, "it would go against our customs.  We do not leave behind an injured Elf, for he would be unable to defend himself.  I must remain with Anomen."

At last Saruman was forced to give in.  Baramagor could not be moved.

"Very well," he conceded reluctantly.  "I will go on to Isengard and send to you servants with horses."  As he spoke, he tried to reassure himself that this only a temporary check to his plans.  "Should they try to flee," he thought to himself, "they will not get far.  Anomen can scarcely move, and Baramagor will not abandon him.  Yes, it is safe to leave them alone for the space of the time that it will take to send servants to fetch them back to Isengard."

The wizard bade the two Elves farewell and strode off toward his stronghold.

As soon as Anomen was sure that the Istar was out of both sight and hearing, he exclaimed to Baramagor, "Fetch me that branch over there."  It was a thick branch, fairly straight, and about five feet in length.  Anomen flexed it slightly.  It was not brittle.  Pressing upon it, he pushed himself to his feet, and he began to limp with surprising speed back in the direction from whence they had come.  Baramagor looked on with astonishment."

"Anomen, what are you doing?  We must wait here for Saruman's servants!"

"No!" Anomen declared vehemently.  "That is the one thing we must _not_ do!"

"Anomen, I do not understand."

"Nor can I make you understand.  Baramagor, regardless of how things appear, you will simply have to trust me.  Can you do that?  _Will_ you do that?"

Baramagor scarcely hesitated.  "Of course.  I will follow you to whatever end."

"Thank you," Anomen said gratefully.  "Now we must make haste.  We must get beyond the reach of Saruman's servants."

They set off slowly at first, given Anomen's injury, but to the surprise of both, before too long Anomen was able to move with some alacrity.  His swollen ankle seemed to be improving by the minute, and Anomen was soon able to put his boot back on and move even more quickly through the forest.  Moreover, it almost seemed as if their former foes, the tree roots, were now withdrawing from their path, leaving the way as smooth as if it were a paved road.  At the same time, the tree limbs appeared to lean out to catch them on the few occasions when they did stumble.  Indeed, more than once Anomen could have sworn that a limb had gently pushed him forward, hastening him toward safety.

They were very near to the border of the forest when they heard the sound that they had been fearing—hoofbeats.  They took cover in the nearest thicket.

"They are considerable in number," cried Baramagor, trembling and clutching Anomen.  Anomen was trembling likewise, but after a moment he relaxed somewhat.

"Baramagor," he whispered, "these riders approach from the east."

"What do you mean?"

"Saruman's servants would approach from the west.  These riders do not come from Isengard."

"From where then?"

"Let us wait and see."

In only a few more minutes the riddle was solved.  With a cry of joy the two young Elves burst out of the thicket, disregarding brambles as they did so.  Before them, prancing and snorting, was Baramagor's horse.  Hard on his heels galloped up the Rohirrim escort.

"A clever horse, that," said the captain to Baramagor.  "Came racing up to our camp, wouldn't allow himself to be caught, made it plain as day that he wanted us to follow him.  And so here we are, and here you are."

Within a trice, the two Elves had scrambled upon their horse, but Baramagor stayed the captain before he could give the command to resume their journey to Lothlórien.

"The Lord Saruman was to send servants and horses to bring us to Isengard.  I think it would only be courtesy to inform him that we did not after all need his assistance."  Baramagor glanced apologetically toward Anomen, but his friend nodded in agreement.  Whatever his own feelings, it would not do to anger the wizard needlessly.

The captain of the Rohirrim saw the wisdom in what Baramagor said.

"You are quite right, young one.  I will send a messenger."

The captain studied his troop briefly before calling over the youngest of his riders.

"Gríma, come here."

The young rider detached himself from the others and cantered over.

"Yes, my captain."

"I have need of a messenger.  The Lord Saruman must be told that these two Elves are safely on their way to Lothlórien."

Gríma was a callow youth, his eyes pale and watery, his limbs ungainly, his shoulders hunched.  His thin hair was stringy and greasy, his skin unnaturally pale, like the color of a grub one might find under a rotting log.  Anomen thought that his hands looked soft for a rider.  Oddest of all, Anomen could scarcely make out his eyebrows or eyelashes.  Combined with his heavily lidded and unblinking eyes, this lack of facial hair put Anomen in mind of a reptile, perchance a snake ready to strike.

Anomen shook off these thoughts.  Gríma's appearance was not his fault, and no doubt he would be a suitable messenger, discrete and fair-spoken, else why would the captain have chosen him.

Indeed, Gríma spoke smoothly now, his voice oily and ingratiating.  "It would be an honor indeed to carry your words to the Lord Saruman.  Long have I desired to see Isengard and its tower, Orthanc, whose strength and fame grow daily."

To Anomen it seemed as if the captain answered a trifle testily.  "Take care that you do not expend all your words before you come to Isengard.  I would not want your eloquence to run short."

Gríma answered in the same unctuous voice.  "Oh, fear not, my captain, I have a great stock of such words."

"I don't doubt it," said the captain shortly.

With that, Gríma bowed obsequiously and set out for Isengard, and the young Elves and their escorts resumed their journey to Lothlórien.


	13. Mithrandir Uncloaked

Vocabulary

Maia—; "A Holy One'; singular of 'Maiar'

peredhil—'half-elven'

Tawarmaenas—'Forest Craft'

Vala—'The Power'; singular of 'Valar'

            The day after Anomen and Baramagor departed for Lothlórien, Mithrandir led his small band of Elves away from camp.  Stealthily, they made their way toward the secret entrance to Dol Guldur that the wizard had uncovered several years earlier.  As they walked, Elrohir pondered the curious behavior of Tawarmaenas.  After that first night outside Mithrandir's tent, for the most part the Greenwood Elf had behaved perfectly correctly, his face impassive, his voice neutral.  Yet from time to time his behavior hinted at something akin to friendliness, and that puzzled Elrohir.

Elrohir could understand that, on a mission such as theirs, warriors who disliked one another might strive to put aside their differences in order to accomplish their shared goal.  In such a case, it would make sense for each warrior to put on a mask so that he could collaborate with his fellows.  It would also make sense, if the mask should slip, that pride and resentment would be briefly revealed.

On the other hand, in such a case it did _not_ make sense that a slipping mask should reveal curiosity and kindness as well.  But whenever Tawarmaenas' mask slipped, either friendliness or hostility seemed equally likely to be seen.  A branch rolled under Elladan's feet—and Tawarmaenas reached out a hand to steady him, a look of concern on his face that vanished as quickly as it appeared.  Rúmil staggered as he tried to haul a cauldron of water that they would heat for bathing their last night in camp.  Tawarmaenas tried to lend a hand and, when Rúmil would have rebuffed him, he warned the Lothlórien Elf that he might strain a muscle if he tried to carry the cauldron unaided.  When the Imladris and Lothlórien Elves joked and reminisced with each other, Tawarmaenas hovered nearby, as if he wished he could join in the merriment.  After two days of observing Tawarmaenas' behavior, Elrohir had begun to wonder which—if any—of his faces was genuine, which the mask.

            Elrohir's ruminations were interrupted when they at last neared the secret entrance into Dol Guldur.  

            "I will go on ahead to reconnoiter," said Mithrandir.  "You stay here and look about for good places to hide your bows and quivers.  You won't need them inside.  Indeed, they will only hinder you as we make our way through the narrow passageway."

            As he spoke, Mithrandir himself was stripping off his cloak.  He rolled his hat up in it and hid the bundle in a windrow of leaves.  Elladan and Elrohir exchanged horrified glances.  Mithrandir had been visiting at Rivendell since they had been little elflings.  They had _never seen him uncloaked._

            After the wizard had slipped quietly off, Elladan found his voice.

            "Elrohir, Mithrandir is, is—well, he looks _naked."_

            Wordlessly, Elrohir nodded.

            "Huh," scoffed Tawarmaenas, his arrogant side showing.  "He has got on his tunic and leggings.  Now, if he took off those, _then—"_

            "Let us not speak of it," interrupted Elladan, scandalized at the thought of Mithrandir _sans _tunic and leggings.

            Tawarmaenas sneered.  "You worship that old wizard.  But he is only a Maia, not a Vala.  But I should not be surprised—after all, _you_ are only peredhil, half-elven.  You must be easily impressed."

            Elrohir and Elladan were too angry to stir.  It was Thoron who launched himself at the Greenwood Elf, and it was Haldir and his brothers who restrained their furious friend.

            At last Elrohir found his voice.  "We may be half-elven," he hissed, "but your full-elven king didn't even have the wit to hang on to his own son."

            Tawarmaenas turned white.

            "Hah," gloated Elrohir to himself.  "That hit home."

Several tense minutes passed.  When Tawarmaenas at last spoke, it was in a soft voice.

"The prince was my cousin.  With his loss, I am the only one left of the royal blood.  Thranduil means to name me his heir—but I do not want that," he went on unhappily.  "I am a forester.  My mother knew it from my birth.  That is why she named me Tawarmaenas.  When I am king, however, I shall have to sit the livelong day in the audience chamber, inclining my ear to all and sundry.  I will never climb another tree, I am sure.  Neither my dignity nor my advisors would permit it."

He looked down sadly at the ground.  Elrohir felt ashamed of his words.

"I am sorry, Tawarmaenas.  I did not know that the prince was your cousin.  I did not know of the burden that you bear.  But perhaps—"

Elrohir paused.  Elladan was looking at him apprehensively.  Still, after a minute Elrohir rushed on recklessly.  "The prince will come back—I am sure of it.  No one ever found his body.  He is—somewhere—and he shall safely return.  Oh, you must trust in that, Tawarmaenas!"

Tawarmaenas stared at Elrohir, astonished at the depth of the emotion in his voice.

"You truly believe what you say!"

"Yes, I do," said Elrohir fervently.

"But how can you be so certain?" asked the Greenwood Elf.

Elrohir looked uneasy.  "I—I do not know," he stammered.

Haldir studied Elrohir curiously.  As Tawarmaenas had said, how could his friend be so certain?  "Your grandmother is Galadriel," he mused aloud.  "Perhaps, like her, you have the gift of seeing far into past, future, and present."

Elrohir seized gratefully upon that idea.  "Yes! Yes, Haldir!  That must be it!"

Elladan had been holding his breath, and he now allowed himself to exhale, but only a little.  How could Elrohir have been so foolish!?  If Tawarmaenas were to spread Elrohir's claim about, people would be thinking of the prince, looking for the prince—even expecting to come across him momentarily.  Throughout Mirkwood, nay, throughout elvendom, folk would be peering eagerly into the faces of all elves of the right age, especially those with fair-hair.

            Elrohir, however, felt no such concern.  Once Haldir had come up with a plausible explanation for Elrohir's extraordinary assertion, he felt free to enjoy the effect that he had had on Tawarmaenas.  For there was no mask on that Elf's face now, Elrohir was sure.  No, Tawarmaenas' expression was genuine, if wistful—a mixture of sadness and hope.  Elrohir was sorry that he had ever thought ill of him.

            "He was covering up his grief and fear more than anything else," the Rivendell Elf thought to himself.  "It was the arrogance that was the mask."  Elrohir suddenly wondered if Tawarmaenas had that in common with his uncle the king.  "I have heard it said that Thranduil is unbending and insufferably proud.  Could that be a mask?"  Ai! This thought set in motion a chain of reflection that made Elrohir most uncomfortable.  For it was also said that Thranduil had not minded the loss of his son.  "How can people be sure that the king did not suffer?" Elrohir asked himself.  And once _that thought occurred to Elrohir, the next one that naturally arose was this: if Elrond had given Anomen sanctuary because he thought him unloved and unwanted, then Elrond might be mistaken._

            Fortunately for Elrohir, his meditations again were interrupted.  They heard a slight rustle in the bushes.  Mithrandir had returned, and he gestured at them to follow him.  All sorrow and doubt were put aside as the young Elves fell into line behind the wizard.  Silently they crept up to the hidden entrance.  There they found four half-goblins sprawled upon the ground, their throats cut.  The young Elves stared at the Istar, their mouths agape most inelegantly.

"Ah, admiring my handiwork, I see," said Mithrandir.  "Well, well, I know I am a maia, not a vala, but I do have a few tricks up my sleeves.  Even when I am not wearing them," he added.

"How does he _do that!?" wondered Elrohir, feeling nervous.  He wondered what else of their conversation Mithrandir was somehow privy to.  As for Tawarmaenas, he looked a little frightened, too, but the wizard winked at him, and the stoic mask slid once more over the face of the Greenwood Elf, although before it did so he grinned quickly at Elrohir._

The narrow corridor twisted sharply about, so they had crawled only a little way before the light from the entrance gave out.  They would have been in utter darkness had it not been for the glowing tip of Mithrandir's staff.  The young Elves fixed their eyes upon that spot of brightness. The further they made their way into the subterranean passage, the more it filled with the Necromancer's eerie mist, but somehow Mithrandir's light remained as strong as ever, undimmed by the uncanny vapors.   

It seemed to Elrohir that they crawled for hours.  Small as he was, he was hard put to maneuver through several of the narrower spaces, and he marveled at the agility of the wizard, whose ability to squeeze through these tight spots did seem nothing short of supernatural, let alone magical.  Tawarmaenas, who was just ahead of the Rivendell Elf, was similarly impressed, for at one point he whispered to him, "I think I may have been mistaken. Mayhap he is a vala after all!"

At last the passageway widened, and they came to a chamber large enough for all of them to cluster around Mithrandir.

"I will face the Necromancer.  It is your task to fend off his creatures so that I may challenge him unmolested.  No one is to approach the Necromancer but myself.  Do you understand?"

They all nodded.  The wizard looked at them well-nigh fiercely.

"Do not forget!  No matter what happens, you are not to approach the Necromancer!  Look around you.  If anything should keep me, will you recognize this place again?"

They all looked around, memorizing the appearance of the chamber.

"If the Orcs and half-goblins begin to overwhelm you, do not wait for me.  Make for this chamber straightaway and flee."

"But, Mithrandir," began Elladan.

"Silence!  You will swear to me, by the Silmaril of Beren, that you will not wait for me."

"I will _not swear!" declared Elladan stubbornly._

"Then you are not fit to go forward," said Mithrandir bluntly.  "No warrior should throw his life away needlessly when, living, he could still be of service to his people."

Miserably, Elladan nodded and softly said, "I swear."

"And you others?"

The remaining Elves reluctantly murmured the pledge as well.  

"Good.  Draw your swords.  It will not be long now."

Many of the Orcs and half-goblins of Dol Guldur had been ordered outside the tower to defend against the diversionary attack that had been planned to coincide with Mithrandir's secret invasion, but the fortress was by no means empty.  As Mithrandir and the Elves sprang from the chamber into a large hallway, the wizard unleashed his power upon the first few creatures he encountered, but then he raced up a stairway, leaving the Elves to deal with the rest.  Attracted by the crack and flash of the flame that had shot from the end of the Istar's staff, foes poured into the hallway.  The Elves formed themselves into a circle.

Although the Orcs and half-goblins were many in number, by their tactics the Elves were able to deprive their foes of any advantage they may have gained from that fact.  Facing outward, their backs to one another, the Elves only had to beat back a few foes at a time.  Their other enemies milled about uselessly on the perimeter of the battle, almost perversely eager for their comrades to be slain because only then would they be able to attempt to satisfy their blood lust.  One by one, each Orc and half-goblin fell, to be replaced by others that would also be cut down by the disciplined Elves.  When their foes had all been slain, the young Elves, as they had been taught, checked to see that each was indeed dead and not merely wounded or, even worse, feigning death in order to leap up and slaughter them once their backs were turned and their guards lowered.  Elrohir, however, after glancing about to see that all his comrades were safe, made for the stairs.  "There may be other foes above," he thought to himself.  "I must not let them assail Mithrandir and prevent him from carrying the fight to the Necromancer."

When Elrohir reached the upper landing, however, he saw no one about.  Cautiously he made his way down the hallway, pushing ajar doors and peering inside chambers, his sword at the ready.  Suddenly he realized that tendrils of mist were sliding past him, moving faster and faster as if recoiling into some vaporous center.  It was as if the tentacles of some beast were being rapidly retracted.  Elrohir followed the miasmic strands, for he intuited that at their source he would find what he sought.

He rounded a corner and there, with his back to him, stood Mithrandir, his staff upraised, filaments of vapor rushing past him to gather into one roiling, shadowy miasma.

Elrohir tried to look past Mithrandir, to catch a glimpse of whatever foe was hidden within that darkness.  At first he saw nothing, only the mist.  It was as if the wizard were giving battle to a cloud, forcing it back with the dazzling brilliance of his staff.  But then in the midst of the swirling murkiness, Elrohir caught sight of an eye—and the eye caught sight of him.  It was a red eye, lidless, flames swirling about it—swirling, swirling.  Mesmerized, Elrohir was drawn by the orb.  Like a sleepwalker, he took several steps toward it.  He dropped his sword to his side—and something hit him, hard, on the side of the head, throwing him to the floor.

"Ow!" he cried out, his face stinging.  Tawarmaenas slapped him again and drew back his hand to hit him a third time.  Elrohir held up his arms.  "You needn't, Tawarmaenas!"

"Good!  I hurt my hand on your hard head the first and second time, and it's like to break if you make me do it again."

"Your hand or my head?"

"My _hand, troll-brain!  Your head is too thick to take any harm."_

Tawarmaenas helped him scramble to his feet and pushed him toward the staircase, although, chastened by his near-disaster, Elrohir hardly needed any urging.  He glanced back only once, and saw that Mithrandir, his staff glowing, was advancing, the mist retreating.  There was no longer any sign of the eye.  As he and Tawarmaenas descended the steps to rejoin the others, the hallways became filled with light that flooded in through the embrasures.

"The accurséd vapors that have surrounded and filled this tower are being driven back," said Tawarmaenas.   "Mithrandir has prevailed over the Necromancer."  Indeed, this was so, and outside the tower, witless and purposeless Orcs and half-goblins, deprived of the guidance of their master, ran hither and thither, falling easy victim to the Elves who methodically hunted them.

On the landing below, a relieved Elladan seized Elrohir as soon as he reappeared.

"Where were you!?"

"I went after Mithrandir."

"You troll-brain!"

"That's what _I said," chortled Tawarmaenas.  All joined in his merriment._

"Come," said Haldir.  "Let us take shelter in the chamber until Mithrandir returns."  They did not have to wait long.  Soon the measured tread of the wizard was heard in the corridor outside.  He stuck his head into the room and said, as casually as if he had come to pay a visit in Rivendell, "Ah, there you are; I was wondering where you had gotten yourselves to."

 "Mithrandir," said Elladan eagerly, "have you slain the Necromancer?"

"I have not," Mithrandir replied cheerfully.

Once again the Elves found themselves staring with their mouths inelegantly agape.

"Really," said Mithrandir reprovingly, "Elrond must ask Erestor to review etiquette and protocol with you young ones."

Jaws snapped shut, but questions remained in their eyes.

"If this evil is as I suspect, then I could never have hoped to slay it.  Not by the sword shall it perish."

"Then what," asked Haldir, bewildered, "was the purpose of this campaign?"

"To drive our foe into the open, where its true nature can be ascertained.  It may be that by doing so we have set in motion a chain of events that will lead to the death of many, Elf, Dwarf, and Man.  But I deem that only thus have we any hope of ultimate victory.  For if we do nothing, our enemy will continue to grow in power until there is no countering it."

The Elves' glow of triumph began to fade, but Mithrandir strove to rekindle it a little.

"It is no small feat to drive an entrenched enemy from its stronghold so that it can be dealt with on more equal terms.  Moreover, do not forget that through this battle we have gained some respite for Thranduil's folk.  We have not cleansed Greenwood altogether—the spiders remain—but it will be a less perilous place for a little while at least."

His words could not entirely restore the Elves to their former exultation, but he did succeed in cheering them up somewhat.

"Come now.  Let us leave this fortress.  Although the evil has fled, it is not a pleasant place, nor will it be so for a long time to come."

The Elves willingly followed the wizard's lead, laboriously making their way back through the narrow passageway and into the sunlight.  They hastened away from the base of Dol Guldur and at length came to the spot where Mithrandir had hidden his cloak and hat.  He rummaged about in the leaves and pulled them forth.

"Time to get back into uniform, I suppose," he said, reassuming his mantle.  "Although," he mused, "sometimes this garb _is a nuisance, so heavy, always liable to get tangled on bushes.  Perhaps I should adopt different apparel.  What think you?" he said, turning to Elladan and Elrohir, "Mayhap I should change my style, wear something a trifle less flowing?"_

"Oh, no!" chorused the twins.

"Please don't," Tawarmaenas chimed in unexpectedly.  "I like your—style.  Yes," he said, looking about at the other Elves.  "We _all like your style!"_

Heads bobbed in hearty agreement.  Tawarmaenas spoke for all of them.

"Very well," said Mithrandir, his face grave, but his eyes merry.  "I shall continue to dress as I always have."

"Mithrandir's in his cloak—all's right with the world," sang Tawarmaenas, suddenly giddy.  Everyone, even Mithrandir, laughed heartily.

"I suppose," he mused, "that I should be trying once again to impress upon you the fact that only a temporary peace is in the offering, a mere respite before the ultimate battle between good and evil.  But I have heard it said by the Valar that 'sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof'.  Let that be the writ for this day.  Come.  Strap on your quivers; let us return to camp.  Your kin will be wanting to know that you are safe.  _All_ your kin," he added, turning his piercing eyes upon Elrohir.

"Yes," thought Elrohir.  "It would be good if _all of Tawarmaenas' kin were to know that he is safe.  I shall contrive to make it so—although carefully, lest Elladan have my head! And someday," he continued to himself, "it would be good if Tawarmaenas were likewise to know that all _his_ kin are safe!"_

But that latter wish, Elrohir knew, would be much more difficult to fulfill.


	14. Riddles

**The translation of the Old English riddle near the end of this installment is based on the dictionary at the web site _Old English Made Easy, _which can be found at /modean52/oemedictionaries.htm**

**_Jebb_ and E_lvendancer_: Yeah, I don't want to see Mithrandir without tunic and leggings either. I _do_ have a story, set post ROTK when Legolas and Gimli journey about together, in which Gimli does strip Legolas in order to bathe him after the Elf suffers an injury. It's meant to be funny, including as it does much smirking by Aragorn and eye-rolling by Elrond. The story is called _Mellon,_ and sometime way in the future, after I have concluded _The Nameless One_ series, I will finish it and post it.**

**_Farflung__: _I have taken some liberties with the canonical chronology, I know, although I've tried to be roughly faithful. I'm glad you find Thranduil to be a bit more believable. Yes, I love Ian McClellan's version of Gandalf (love Ian McClellan, too, but ai! he's not attracted to my gender. Author pouts).**

**Thank you, _Kawaii__ ningen kitsune _and _Ebony Falcon._**

**_Lembas7: _Thank you for your additional advice about the battle scenes. I do tend to focus on dialogue and don't do nearly as much with scenery and action. This installment is an example of that, as it is pretty much dialogue driven. I'll keep that in mind as I work on my next story.**

**_Dragonfly, MoroTheWolfGod, _and _Volcanic Plug: _She's baaa-ack!**

The Lothlórien and Imladris Elves were riding at a leisurely pace toward the realm of Lord Celeborn, where they planned to enjoy several days of feasting and merriment. The Rohirrim had accompanied them for part of the way but then had departed, politely declining an invitation to join the Lórien festivities. Thranduil and his warriors likewise had returned to the King's Hall, Thranduil preferring to celebrate with his people rather than to travel afar. Thus the Greenwood Elves had journeyed with their Elven kin only as far as the Rohirrim encampment. Mithrandir, too, had taken his leave at that point.

"I have some Dwarves to check on, as well as the hapless Halfling who accompanies them." Neither Mithrandir nor Thranduil could have guessed that those Dwarves and Halfling would soon be disturbing the celebrations of the Greenwood Elves. But that is another story.

The young Lórien and Rivendell Elves were sorry to be parted from the wizard. Sorry too were they that Tawarmaenas was not to travel with them to the land of the golden mallorn trees. Elrohir was especially disappointed.

"Remember, Tawarmaenas," he said to the Greenwood Elf at their parting, "do not give way to despair. Your cousin Legolas will return one day—I am as sure of that as I am that I have a brother! Of course," he added, "it may be several centuries before he reappears, so you will have to be patient."

Tawarmaenas nodded, his eyes shining. "It will not be difficult to be patient now that I have hope," he declared cheerfully. "Stay well, mellon."

"I shall try," laughed Elrohir as he mounted his horse. "But I do have that brother of mine, so it is not always easy!"

Elladan made a great show of scowling, but in truth nothing could have dampened his spirits. He and his brother would soon be in Lórien, lolling about in Haldir's talan and exchanging tales—only slightly exaggerated—with Anomen and Baramagor. It would take a great effort on Elrohir's part to damage _his_ equanimity—although, he mused, he wouldn't put it past Elrohir to try. Perhaps it would be wise to be vigilant!

In Lothlórien Anomen and Baramagor waited impatiently for the return of their companions. A messenger had ridden in with word of the victory, and he had carried a letter from Elrond that had assured the two young Elves that their kin and friends had survived the final battle.

"I wish _we_ could have gone into Dol Guldur with the others," complained Baramagor. "What an adventure they have had!"

"I would have thought," said Anomen, "that our flight from the wargs was adventure enough. You certainly seemed to think so at the time," he teased.

Baramagor laughed. "I cannot deny that, yes, I felt it to be an adventure more than sufficient to satisfy my desire for excitement for _at least_ the space of my immortal life, if not longer!"

At that moment they heard voices at the base of Haldir's talan, where they had been staying since arriving in Lothlórien. Looking over the edge, they saw their friends ascending the rope ladder.

"Mae govannen!" they called down. "Mae govannen!"

Soon the talan was a perfect hive of buzzing Elves, each striving to talk at once.

"Anomen and I were set upon by three score of wargs!"

"Two score, Baramagor. Had it been three score, I would have run out of arrows."

"Oh, but he _did_ run out of arrows. We had to fight the last two wargs hand-to-jaw!"

"After they had been knocked silly by our horse."

"Anomen," teased Elrohir, "stop being so modest. _I_ certainly intend to take full credit for _my_ exploits!"

"_Your_ expoits!?" scoffed Elladan. "Anomen, Elrohir was a perfect troll-brain. He almost fell into the clutches of the Necromancer."

"You make it sound much worse than it was," protested Elrohir.

"If Tawarmaenas hadn't gone after you, it would have been," retorted Elladan.

"Tawarmaenas?"

"Yes," said Elrohir, "Tawarmaenas. Is he someone you knew in Greenwood, Anomen?" He watched Anomen closely.

Anomen had indeed known Tawarmaenas. Although his cousin was several decades younger than he, they had trained together on bow and horseback. In the company of Tawarmaenas, Anomen often found himself laughing, something he rarely did under other circumstances. For his part, Tawarmaenas had admired his older cousin and loved nothing better than to spend time trailing after him, a fact that Anomen greatly appreciated, as no one else seemed to find his company desirable.

"Yes," Anomen said at last. "Yes, I did know an Elf called Tawarmaenas."

"He is the nephew of the king. Did you know that?"

"Yes, I believe that I had heard something to that effect."

"And he is the cousin of the missing prince."

"Of course," said Anomen, a trifle testily, "if he is the king's nephew then he must have been the prince's cousin." Why had Elrohir said the 'missing' prince?

"Since no one in Mirkwood knows the whereabouts of the prince, Thranduil is going to name Tawarmaenas heir as soon as he comes of age."

"Thranduil must be delighted to have an heir to hand," said Anomen shortly. To himself he thought, "Of course Thranduil never minded my loss; he has known all along that Tawarmaenas would do."

"But," continued Elrohir, "Tawarmaenas does not wish to be the king's heir. He is very unhappy and hopes that his cousin will be found."

Anomen flinched a little. He had never meant to make his cousin unhappy. The day he had run away he had been thinking only of his own anger and pain.

"At first," Elrohir went on, "I did not realize how unhappy Tawarmaenas was, for he hid it well. We all of us merely thought that he was intolerably proud and insensitive."

"Tawarmaenas was never insensitive, and he certainly was not proud," Anomen declared indignantly.

"Really? But you must understand that it was easy for us to believe that he was thoughtless and arrogant: he seemed so much like his uncle the king. Of course, now I think on it, perhaps Thranduil is like Taramaenas, instead of Taramaenas like Thranduil."

"What do you mean?"

"We thought Taramaenas an unpleasant sort, but he created that impression because he was trying to hide his feelings. Everyone thinks Thranduil an unpleasant sort, but maybe he is trying to hide his feelings as well. After all, he would have cause, having lost both his wife and his son to spiders—or so it is thought."

Anomen had much to ponder. Could it be possible that his father's cold behavior resulted because he felt too much rather than too little? Could he allow himself to hope that his father might indeed feel sorrow over his loss? Beyond that, Anomen found Elrohir's language a little disconcerting: 'missing prince', 'no one in Mirkwood knows the whereabouts of the prince', 'hopes that his cousin will be found', 'having lost both his wife and his son to spiders—or so it is thought'. Anomen had the uncomfortable feeling that Elrond had intentionally chosen these phrases.

Elrohir, however, was not finished; he had one more throw.

"You remind me of Tawarmaenas in some respects, Anomen."

"In what way?" asked Anomen cautiously.

"Oh, I don't mean that you are proud or unkind, but you must confess that you sometimes hide your feelings."

"If I hide my feelings, then you can hardly expect me to confess that I do," replied Anomen dryly.

"With your careful answer, you have just proved my point," crowed Elrohir triumphantly.

Anomen joined in with the laughter of his friends. It seemed to Elrohir, however, that Anomen's laughter was a little forced.

Anomen experienced one more moment of discomfort before the Rivendell Elves departed from Lothlórien. Galadriel sent for him one night. To his surprise, her messenger led him not to her talan but to the clearing known as Galadriel's Glade, where the Lady oft retired to gaze upon her mirror, which was rumored to show past, present, and future, albeit in such a fashion that it was often hard, if not impossible, to judge whether one was looking at prior events or ones that were still to come.

When he arrived in the Glade, she stood before a plinth and gestured at him to approach. As he did so, she poured silvery water from a flagon into the basin that served as the mirror. Wisps of vapor arose as the water slowly stilled. Galadriel spoke.

"Will you look into the mirror?"

"What will I see, Lady?"

"Not even the wise can tell."

Anomen hesitated and then drew nearer until he stood looking down into the mirror. The smooth surface of the water was shiny and reflective; at the same time the water had the appearance of endless depth.

The water began to stir. Anomen found himself looking at his father, but it was not the face Anomen had grown accustomed to in the years before he had run away from Mirkwood. Thranduil was smiling; nay, he was laughing! By all accounts, this could not be Thranduil now! But was it Thranduil in the past, before the birth of the son that had meant the death of his wife? Or was it Thranduil in the future, recovered at last from his grief? Bewildered, Anomen looked up at Galadriel.

"The image is what you make of it, Anomen," she said softly, divining his thoughts. This was not a satisfactory answer, for it was as ambiguous as the vision itself. Did she mean that he could think of it as he would, or that he was somehow responsible for bringing it about?

Anomen again looked upon the mirror. The vision of his father had vanished. Now Anomen saw himself, and he knew that what he saw would have to take place in the future, if ever, for he had no memory of this scene. He was sitting companionably between two figures—warriors by their garb. One was a Man who was of noble bearing yet scruffy and unkempt. He was wrapped in a travel-worn cape, his long legs were stretched out before him, and he smoked a pipe. The other figure was—a Dwarf! Anomen looked up at Galadriel, his bafflement plain to see. She only smiled and said nothing.

A few days later the Rivendell Elves bade farewell to their Lothlórien kin, and several weeks after that, the Imladris Elves had safely returned to their land. Elrond and each member of his household quickly settled back into their accustomed routines. Elrond retired to his chamber to read and answer missives, to peruse scrolls, and to receive ambassadors—be they Man, Dwarf, or Elf. Glorfindel threw himself with renewed vigor into training novices and supervising patrols. Elladan, Erestor, and Anomen were immediately corralled by their tutor Erestor, who insisted that they take up their studies at exactly the same point at which they had left off so many weeks before. And gleeful at the return of her Ada and her brothers, Arwen scampered about, getting underfoot but amusing everyone, even, it must be said, the redoubtable Glorfindel.

But although the Elves were quick to readopt their former customs, all was not unchanged. The Elves who had fought at Dol Guldur were at once wiser, sadder, and more appreciative of the blessings that the Valar had bestowed upon them.

Elrohir was one of those who had changed the most. He was more thoughtful, less rash, and also aware that the world was a vastly more complicated place than he had thought when he had set out to avenge his Naneth. Anomen's presence in Imladris was a case in point. When Mithrandir had brought Anomen to Rivendell, Elrohir had been delighted at the arrival of a new brother who would be both a target for his and Elladan's pranks and a companion in their adventures. It had never occurred to him that Anomen's residence in their household might depend upon a complex and ever-changing set of circumstances. Nor had it occurred to him that among those circumstances might be a delicate balancing act that required Elrond to continually weigh the competing and equally legitimate claims of a father and his son. For since he had broached with Elladan the subject of Anomen's remarkable resemblance to Thranduil, Elrohir had become convinced that this ethical bartering was indeed what his father was engaged in. He could not believe that his father, who had been long acquainted with Thranduil, had overlooked what his two sons had finally been unable to ignore. Nor could he believe that his father would be so callous as to hide Anomen from Thranduil unless he believed that handing over Anomen would cause the young Elf harm.

But, reflected Elrohir to himself, these were mere suppositions. He believed himself to be correct, but he had no proof. For several weeks he brooded over the matter until at last Elladan grew impatient and insisted that he confront their father.

"You will never be satisfied until you have spoken with Ada. Why delay further?"

"I cannot just march into Ada's chamber and say, 'Ada, have you been hiding a son from his father?'!"

"I did not say you should do _that_, Elrohir! Surely you can contrive a more subtle approach. Come. Ada is at leisure in his chamber for the space of an hour. He has always encouraged us to talk with him whenever we felt the need."

Both reluctant and eager, Elrohir agreed. Elladan walked with him to his father's chamber. Elrohir raised his hand, hesitated, and knocked.

"Enter."

With a final glance at Elladan, who smiled at him encouragingly, Elrohir opened the door to his father's chamber.

"Elrohir, it is good to see you." Elrond gestured toward a chair next to his table and pushed a plate of cheese and fruit toward his son. "I was just now enjoying some refreshments. Please join me."

"Thank you, Ada." Elrond picked up an apple in one hand and a pear in another and unconsciously began to juggle them. Elrond smiled at the sight, for it meant that his son was preoccupied with some matter and desired his counsel.

"What brings you to your father's chamber on such a fine day as this? Has Anomen beaten you again at archery and so you come to seek solace?"

Elrohir laughed. "I long ago learned not to bring high hopes to any archery competition with Anomen. You know that, Ada!"

"Well, well, there is so much to remember when raising children. Sometimes I forget one detail or another."

"Tell me, Ada, was it difficult raising us?"

"Of course!"

"Did we sometimes grieve you?"

"No, you did not so much as grieve me as cause me concern. Sometimes I feared for one or the other of you—sometimes I feared for all of you at once!"

"What gave you the greatest fright when I was a little elfling?"

"When you were a little elfling? I think the time you wandered off and were lost for several days. You somehow contrived to make your way to the border of Eregion, where some passing Rangers happened upon you, thank the Valar!"

"Were you surprised when the Rangers returned me to you?"

"Surprised? No, for the Rangers had sent a rider ahead to tell me that they had found you."

"No, that is not what I meant. Did you not find it surprising that the Rangers took the trouble to bring me back to Rivendell?"

"Of course not. What else would they have done?"

"They could have kept me."

Elrond laughed. "Elrohir, whatever would they have done with an elfling!? Do you think those stern Rangers would have wanted to keep you about to give you pick-a-back rides!"

Elrohir smiled briefly, but he was not satisfied with his father's answer.

"Are lost young ones always returned then?"

Elrond grew somber. "No, not always. Sometimes they are found by wild beasts and slain. Sometimes they fall into rivers and drown. Sometimes they perish from cold or hunger. And sometimes they are seized by slavers and sold away into distant lands. But if they are lucky, they are found by good people, Elves or Men, who will try to restore them to their families."

"Would a good person who found a lost child ever _not _return the young one?"

"Well, if the child's kin could not be found, then, yes, a lost child might be kept."

"What if the kin were known?"

"Elrohir, what are you driving at?"

"If the child's kin were known, would a person ever be justified in keeping the child nonetheless?"

"Well," said Elrond slowly, "if a young one were in danger of harm upon return to his family, then it may be right to harbor him."

"So if a young one ran away?"

"Possibly."

"If his kin were cruel or unkind?"

"Probably."

"If they beat him?"

"Certainly."

"Of course," Elrond added, "I am not talking about the occasional well-deserved spanking."

He looked hard at Elrohir.

"For example, I seem to remember that a certain elfling crept into the cave of a sleeping troll and tied his boot laces together. The elfling never did _that_ again, you will recall, not after his Ada was finished with him!"

Elrohir winced at the memory of the only thrashing he had received in his entire life, but then he grinned at a sudden thought.

"Do you know, Ada, I ran away after you gave me that spanking."

"Did you? To whom did you run?"

"To Erestor."

"That old bachelor!?"

"Yes. I asked him if I could be his little elfling."

"Oh, and what did he say?"

"He pulled out a strap and said he needed to size it against my bottom before he could tell me yea or nay!"

Elrond flung back his head and gave way to a rare fit of deep laughter.

Elrohir grinned sheepishly. "I went scuttling back to my room as fast as I could, you may be sure! I didn't come out from underneath the quilt until well after sun-up the next morning."

Elrond laughed again. Still chuckling, he arose from his seat. "Well, my son, if you are done reminiscing, I have scrolls to read and visitors to entertain."

"Yes, Ada." Elrohir arose as well, bowed to his father, and started toward the door. Halfway there, he stopped and turned about.

"Have _you_ ever kept an elfling whose kin were known?"

"No one has ever told me the name of Anomen's father, if that is what you want to know."

Elrohir was stunned. He stood with his mouth agape. Elrond raised his eyebrows disapprovingly, and Elrohir closed his mouth.

"I have never," continued Elrond, "asked him the name of his father—nor have I asked Mithrandir, for that matter. So, you see, Elrohir, it cannot be said that I have ever kept an elfling whose kin were known _to me_. And, if _you_ do not object," he added archly, "I would like to keep it that way."

"Oh." Elrohir stood uncertainly.

After a minute, Elrond raised his eyebrows inquiringly. "Is there anything else, Elrohir."

"Um, err, no, Ada. I will be going now."

Elladan was waiting patiently outside their father's chamber when Elrohir emerged.

"Well?"

"He did not tell me that he knows the name of Anomen's father."

"So he does not know?"

"I did not say that he does not know."

"So he does know."

"I did not say that either."

"Elrohir!"

"I think," said Elrohir slowly, "that Ada would know if he chose to do so—but he does not so chose."

"Do stop speaking in riddles as if you were a wizard!"

"Very well. I believe that Ada knows or suspects the identity of Anomen's father but that he thinks it would not be wise for him to concede that he does."

"It sounds as if you know no more now than you did when you went in to Ada's chamber."

"I know that Ada chooses not to know."

"But what does _that_ tell you?"

"It tells me that the world is a very complicated place indeed."

"You knew that already, did you not?"

"Yes, but now I am satisfied to know that."

"Satisfied?"

"Satisfied that I must remain unsatisfied for the time being—at the very least!"

"You are speaking in riddles again!"

"Riddles, yes. On the way back from Dol Guldur, when discipline was relaxed, remember that we rode briefly with the Rohirrim and heard them tell riddles? Many of their riddles had two answers—or at least seemed to. Do you recall this one?"

Wrætlic hongað bi weres þeo,

frean under sceate. Foran is þyrel.

Bið stiþ ond heard. Stede hafað godne.

þonne se esne his agen hrægl

ofer cneo hefeð, wile þæt cuþe hol

mid his hangellan heafde gretan touch

þæt he efenlang ær oft gefylde.

"It meant something like this," said Elrohir, loosely translating the language of the Rohirrim: 'A wondrous thing, a splendid thing under a garment, hangs by a man's thigh. It has an opening in its front. It is stiff and hard. Its firmness is a virtue. When the man hitches up his own robe over his knees, he desires to touch with this hanging head that familiar hole that it oft has filled before'."

Elladan blushed. "Yes, I remember that one. The answer should be 'key'. But the Rohirrim delighted in making it sound as if the answer were—something else."

"That's the fun of riddling, isn't it? That the language allows us to think of two possibilities at once?"

"Yes."

"I think for Ada two facts can be true at once—even if they seem to contradict one another."

"You have lost me again," said Elladan.

"Look you," Elrohir continued patiently. "Is not Arwen sometimes a nuisance?"

"Sometimes!? You mean frequently!"

"Does she not sometimes infuriate you?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Do you not at the selfsame time love her? Would you not defend her to the death within moments of having chased her in a fury from your chamber?"

"Yes," said Elladan quietly."

"So within each person many qualities can coexist that would seem at first sight to be contradictory. For example, I can be quite serious, can I not?"

"Oh, _that_ is indubitable."

"Yet on occasion I have been quite—mischievous."

"Not recently," grumbled Elladan. "But, yes," he conceded, "you do have the capacity to inflict quite a lot of mischief—if only you would choose to do so!"

"Do you want me to be only one or the other, either serious or mischievous?"

"No, both qualities are fitting, depending upon circumstances. It would be tiresome if you were serious _all_ the time, but it would be awful if you _never_ ceased to be mischievous. I would not be able to let down my guard for a single minute!"

By now the two young Elves had reached the garden. They stopped to admire a hummingbird that flitted amongst the flowers. Elrohir took a deep breath. There was a dangerous glint in his eye that boded ill for someone.

"Well, now that we have that all sorted out, I have been thinking of cooking up a foul concoction and pouring it over Anomen's head as he is climbing out of his favorite bathing pool. Would you come with me to the kitchen and distract the cooks so that I can steal a kettle?"

Elladan's eyes held a glint that matched his twin's.

"Hurrah! The old Elrohir has come back!"

"He has never been away," replied Elrohir with mock gravity and an exaggerated bow."

And with that the two raced off toward the kitchen.

**_And with that the author races off toward her bed, having completed yet another tale in "The Nameless One" series. When I resume, I will be adding Estel to the concoction—uh, mix._**


End file.
